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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728280">spitfire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayakern/pseuds/mayakern'>mayakern</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>spitfire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood, Blood Magic, Character Death, Dragons, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infidelity, M/M, Magic, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Possible Polyamory, Queer Character, Romance, Romance Novel, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Violence, baby's first romance novel, characters who are blindingly and stupendously bad at feelings, monster fucking, people who absolutely don't know how to handle their own or others emotions, transgender character, world building</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-29 06:48:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>280,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayakern/pseuds/mayakern</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you're a dragon and the prince you're in love with is getting married?  Fuck his wife.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>spitfire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>863</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Opening Remarks/Images</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello! i'm maya, i've been creating art online for over a decade. i used to make webcomics (i ended my comic monsterpop last year after a 7 year run) and now i've decided to write a romance novel. i have absolutely no experience doing this and no idea what i'm doing other than my best, but i've wanted to do this for ages and thought now was as good a time as any to knock this off my bucket list.</p><p>you can find me all over the internet as mayakern!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>beautiful cover image by <a href="https://twitter.com/bisonfisticuffs">Jemma Salume</a></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>map by <a href="https://twitter.com/mayakern">yours truly</a></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Feon</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I will never forget the first time we met.  It is burned brightly into my memory: the day my eyes opened; the day I became whole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t remember much about my family — my blood family, that is. I remember the heat of dragon fire and the warmth of other bodies pressed in against mine. I remember songs warbled from above, full of a deep, persisting love. I remember the darkness of my own eyelids and the red glow of light shining through them and the taste of fresh blood, sweet and sharp and wild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly I just remember him: the feeling of hands, soft and weak and human, pressing unbearably gently against either side of my face, lifting my head towards his; the feeling of his short breaths ghosting across my scales; a quiet reassurance whispered in a tongue I did not understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember the tearing pain of opening my eyes for the first time, nearly blinded by the sun’s radiance. And I remember his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back then, he wore his worries readily: his small, fleshy face framed by dark ringlets, full brows pinched up in the middle, eyes wide with empathy. My prince has always been kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I knew from that first moment that he was mine: mine to serve, to protect, mine to lose if I failed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mine to love, if I dared.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Anniversary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Feon</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sun blazes in an open sky, a hot, bleak star in a sea of serene, uninterrupted blue.It glints wickedly down the length of my blade, a searing reflection that is mirrored in the metal of my opponent’s sword.Caederyn’s blade meets mine with a crashing surety.I feel the reverberation of it all the way up my arm.He pushes his advantage.Without fuss, he presses me back several paces into the cool shadow of the inn.All the while, he holds my gaze, steady and unflinching and utterly unhurried, as he forces my retreat.A bead of sweat drips down my brow and into my eye.I flinch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The length of metal in my hands makes me feel clumsy and unbalanced.The leather grip slips uncomfortably in my grasp, my hands sandwiched end to end to fit together on the hilt.Caederyn’s blade sits firmly in his right hand and he moves with all the surety of one born to wield.His sword slides down the length of mine — a teeth-grindingly awful sound — and he thrusts forward, the barest hint of a grin tugging at one corner of his thin-lipped mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I jerk my body out of the way just in time.The awkward length of my sword throws off my balance, bringing me to a knee, but I am not so slow as to be brought low by this.I turn the stumble into a roll, crushing the young grass beneath me.My nostrils flare as the sharp, sweet scents of crisp grass and fresh earth hit me with all the force of nature heralding the arrival of spring.I scrunch my nose up and valiantly fend off a sneeze.Back on my feet, I turn and only just catch Caederyn’s small bark of laughter, a quiet, caged thing that falls off almost immediately.He carves a striking figure: the golden sun glinting bright in those dark, wretched eyes, the distant blue mountains of Laruze framing him before me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands back.His stance is relaxed, daring me to approach.With a snarl, I rush forward.I grip the hilt with both hands, my palms sweaty against the smooth leather.My blade arcs down with all the force my tiny human body can muster.I watch, in those infinitesimally stretched moments, as my sword carves through the air like butter — congealed, chilled butter that doesn’t ultimately impede the edge’s movement, but does provide just enough impediment to make the arc feel slow and awkward. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn meets it readily.The bitter clash of metal does nothing to dissolve his composure.I attempt to yank my blade back, but he does something — I’m not certain what, exactly — and with a quick twist of his wrist, the sword is wrested from my grasp.He does it easily, like this is a move we’ve rehearsed together, rather than a fight we are each trying to win.The blade drops with a dull thud onto the dewy grass, the hilt coming down hard on my slippered foot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck!” I curse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn grins down at me, one of those long, sculpted brows arched expectantly.Those scant few millimeters of movement contain a truly unbearable amount of self-assurance.I find it deeply irks me.The edge of his blade moves to my throat, no more than a fly’s leg from my skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” he says, his voice low and expectant.“Do you cede?”When I swallow, I can feel the metal’s kiss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before he can press any further, I toe out of my slippers and stretch forward.My head lengthens and grows large with teeth and flame; claws emerge, steely and sharp, from my hands; my human skin shifts to gleaming golden scales.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s eyes get all big and buggy.His sword goes wide, drawing sparks as it grazes my scales before I promptly shove him back.His pathetic human strength is no match for that of my true form.With a vague choked gasp that sounds like an aggrieved hiccup, he topples backwards into the dewy grass.He struggles against me, but it’s like holding a kitten by the scruff of its neck: it can wiggle and swipe with its claws all it likes, but its efforts are, at best, mildly annoying.Caederyn may kick and scream (not that he is likely to do either of those things), but at this point he is more of a threat to himself than to me.I sit back smugly with one clawed talon splayed across his chest.I lower my head towards his and snort a plume of smoke directly in his face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eugh!”Coughing, Caederyn’s hands find the curve of my sternum and he pushes futilely against me, trying to gain any ground he can.I bear it with what I know to be a look of utterly infuriating smugness.It’s an expression I’ve spent years perfecting.(Once, Caederyn told me begrudgingly that he hadn’t known dragons could look quite that smug.“I’d rather thought humans had the market cornered on that,” he’d admitted.I always take immense satisfaction in proving him wrong.)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a minute of struggling, Caed finally collapses back into the grass, his whole body going limp as a soggy noodle as he looks up at me with a sort of exhausted resignation.Tiredly, he raises a hand to pat the side of my snout.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, alright.I yield,” he says, exasperated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Satisfied, I close my eyes and let my body knit back in on itself.It’s somewhat like banking a fire, only the fire is me.When next I open my eyes, I am atop him still.I’m seated just beneath his sternum, one hand atop each of his shoulders, my awkward human legs splayed on either side of his body.My bare knees dig into the wet grass.The remnants of my torn clothing lay scattered around us.Pity, I liked that tunic.A cool breeze stirs, raising goosebumps on my naked human skin.I feel his breathing hitch, feel the stutter of his chest and the deep, heated embarrassment in his heart.His face has gone all red and puckered and stupid.I cock my head to one side as I gaze down at him, a lazy smile pulling at my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed sits up abruptly.Suddenly destabilized, I teeter backwards.I only barely manage to thrust a hand out in time to catch myself before I topple.Hand smarting as it digs into the dirt and grass, I scowl back at Caed.He just gives me a pointed look, heaves a sigh, and then stands and gestures to the sidelines.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Someone — Sir Sieglinde, lend Feon your cloak, please, while someone finds him something to wear.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ll never get sick of the way he sounds out my name, his tongue dipping at the head (“fe” like “fae” or “stay”), lips puckering for the close (“on” like “own” or “stone”).Like any human, he can only fit his mouth around the basest iteration of my name, but he does it better than most.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dusting the dirt off my hands, I hop to my feet.My right foot still smarts a little and I have to favor it when I stand.Sieglinde unclasps her thick red clock from about her neck and then unpins it from where it attaches to her Nadaran red brigandine.She leans down and drapes it around my shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The largest of Prince Caederyn’s guard, Sieglinde is a towering figure.She is brawny and thick about the waist and wears a massive great sword strapped to her back.Despite this, she never quite manages to look intimidating, what with her open face all haloed by a frizz of dirty blonde baby hairs that failed to make it into her ponytail.Sieglinde drops a meaty hand to my shoulder and gives me a big smile from her perpetually sunburnt face.Her fingers are thick with calluses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I guess I should congratulate you on your win against the prince,” Sieglinde says to me, laughter on her breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin and shoot a meaningful glance past her to where Caed is now stripping off his padded practice armor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon didn’t win,” Caed replies tersely.He hands our dull training swords to his primary attendant, a horribly cheery bastard named Mikhail.“He cheated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did not,” I gloat.I carelessly knock Sieglinde’s hand off my shoulder and then wrap her cloak around my waist before throwing the remaining cloth over one shoulder like a toga.She eyes me apprehensively, probably not much liking the sight of her best cloak wrapped around my naked body.I ignore her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You brought a dragon to a sword fight,” Caed says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as Elske, the captain of Caed’s personal guard, helps him stretch out a tight muscle in his shoulder.She’s a flinty silver fox of a woman, hot in a “I will break your wrist if you so much as breathe in my direction” sort of way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cloak now pinned in place, I amble over and clasp both hands over my head and stretch, pressing my palms up towards the sky.Caed is very resolutely not looking back at me, his sharp face turned towards our lodging.It’s not exactly up to our normal standards, but it’s the best Cindwick has to offer and Caed isn’t the type to complain.He is as gracious a guest as he is a host.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, Caed, to be fair...” I begin, injecting a coquettish lilt in my tone.I lay a hand on his upper arm, just beneath the shoulder.His eyes flit to that point of contact before he finally looks back down at me.I wait until I’m certain I have his full attention before I conclude my gloating: “The dragon I brought was <em>me.</em>And you didn’t say anything about dragons not being allowed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought the notion was implicit when you challenged me to a sparring match, but I can see I was mistaken,” he says dryly.He holds my gaze for several heartbeats and then, as if he can’t help it, a small smile creeps on to his lips.“I should have known better.”I don’t think anyone else catches the way his voice softens slightly.Caed reaches forward and ruffles my hair briefly before turning away.“Regardless, I think it is best we get ready now, else we’ll risk tardiness.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin unabashedly at his back and fall in behind him as we enter the inn.It’s handsome in a sort of outdated, so-old-it’s-almost-cool-again kind of way.Formerly the manor of a Larish noble, the estate was abandoned twenty-five years ago when the owner fled to Brenoche, rightly judging the escalating tensions too rich for his blood.After the war and the subsequent reclaiming of the valley by Nadaran rule, the manor was requisitioned by our glorious King Rynnwald before eventually being turned over to the people — or at least, that’s what Caed told me.There were other things he told me — boring tidbits that had nothing to do with war, bloodshed, myself, or any other dragons besides.They were hardly worth the breath Caed spent on the telling of them and so I promptly forgot them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Since the Battle of Ash, the manor has been gutted and turned into an inn.It’s the only lodging in the area capable of housing the entirety of the king’s retinue.The rest of the valley — the Valley of Ash, as it’s now called, ever since the war ended — doesn’t have much in the way of nobility.What few sniveling Larish nobles it once boasted have long since departed in one way or another.It’s all farmland now and though it enjoys prosperous trade relations with the rest of Nadara, the handful of country nobles that have settled here are not equipped to house a party of our size.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of the inn’s people, a girl maybe three or four years my junior, approaches Caed and gives him a clumsy curtsy, a bundle of large towels in her arms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good, umm, good morning, Your Grace.There is a bath drawn for you in your room, if you’d like.”Her eyes flit to me and my near nakedness for a scant moment before the poor girl reddens all the way to her hairline.Thereafter, she very determinedly keeps her gaze lowered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Miss,” Caed replies kindly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I eye the girl speculatively.She’s charming in a common way, all rough edges and country manners.She seems very out of her depth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“W-will you be requiring attending, Your Grace?” she stammers, red faced.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we reach the adjoining rooms where Caed and I are sleeping, she fumbles with the door and nearly drops her armful of towels.Caed catches them neatly and takes them in arm despite her protests.She stands just outside the doorway, visibly grasping for words.With one last grin in her direction, I gleefully close the door in her face.Caed eyes me as he sets down the towels on a worn dresser.Not even the vigorous polishing the dresser recently received can disguise the many years of wear it has endured.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was rather ill mannered of you, Feon,” Caed chides.He stands next to the steaming tub in the center of the room.Caed unties the sash about his waist and lets it fall to the floor before moving on to the buttons of his tunic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She was annoying me,” I grouse, reclining on the brown velvet chaise lounge.Our adjoining rooms, like much of the inn, are decked out in polished dark wood, earth tones, and furs.It looks very much like some sort of overgrown hunting lodge.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Everyone annoys you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed pulls his undershirt over his head and starts unlacing his boots.I eye his bare skin covetously.The expanse of lean muscle is touched by a smattering of scars — some small and nearly invisible, and other darker ones, whispers of a violent history.Only I know all of his scars and only I can tell that Caed is not displeased with me.I can feel his quiet amusement through our Bond, a light note plucked on the tether between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes for a moment and luxuriate in the sweet simplicity of his good mood.When I open my eyes, Caed is fully naked and sliding down into the bath with a contented sigh.Caed is a beautiful man, tall and dark eyed and somber.He has the sort of face that inspires people to read poetry, if for no reason other than to impress him.It’s mildly infuriating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will you be requiring attending?” I ask with mock obeisance.I look at him from under my golden lashes.“…Your Grace?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed pulls a face at me, skin pinked from the hot water.He aims a splash in my direction but it falls short. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, haha, very funny, Fé.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll on to my back and grin at him.Lazily, I raise my hand into the air and brandish the bottle of soap I nicked from beside the bath earlier.Caed glowers at me from where he sits chin deep in the water, his knees to his chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a damned magpie, you know that?” he mutters crossly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise from the lounge and approach the burnished copper clawfoot tub, bottle of soap in hand.“What else am I?” I ask languidly.I stand behind him and place the soap bottle on a little table next to the tub.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A larcenist,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward and dip cupped hands into the hot water. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A no good filcher.”There is no bite to his words.I smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I dribble the water over top his head, letting it cascade down his neck and shoulders.Caed sighs and closes his eyes.Water kisses the sides of his face and the short beard he’s recently cultivated.All is silent for several moments save for the sound of falling water as I gently and thoroughly wet him from the shoulders up.Eventually, Caed submerges himself in the bath water. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he resurfaces he says, “Thank you.”His voice is small and it catches slightly, like fabric caught on a splinter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pump a generous amount of soap into my hands, rub them together to form a lather, and sink them into the hair at his scalp.The soap’s spicy perfume fills the space between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For what?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I carefully coat the length of his hair.It’s grown out recently, the gentle waves falling about to his chin.I wonder absently if he’s trying to emulate his father.If so, he’s nearly halfway there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You knew I was feeling… tense.”His arms tighten around his knees, the muscles in his shoulders pulling taut.“That I needed to let off some steam.Do something instead of just sitting around waiting for the ceremony.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers quest forward until they meet his hairline.I massage the soap into his scalp.There is a weight in the air between us and I wonder if he feels it too.I wonder if he feels the way the tenderness of the moment has stretched languorously, lulled by the heat of the bath and the scent of his soap.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re uncharacteristically contemplative today,” he says.I can hear the smile in his voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers curl in his hair.“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” I lie. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My grip tightens and I pull, dunking him backwards in the hot water.He comes up red faced and spluttering.By the time he’s halfway out of the tub, slipping slightly in his haste, I’m already into the next room, my hand on the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon!” he exclaims, suds dripping down the sides of his shocked, pretty face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t forget to rinse!” I call and promptly shut the door between us.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A small stage has been erected in the center of what constitutes Cindwick’s city square.It’s nothing particularly impressive, just a wooden dais painted deep Nadaran red.It is constructed simply and stands only five or so handspans above the ground— but, then, what use have they here for grandeur?The king does not usually visit Cindwick. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand at the back of the dais, my arms crossed over my chest.I toe at a spot near me where the red paint has chipped slightly, revealing the black-stained wood beneath it.It’s old color, distasteful, soaked too deep into the wood to be stripped away.Unable to be removed, it was instead hastily painted over.Caed shoots me a brief, disapproving glance before returning his gaze to the ceremony before us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the middle of the dais, the king stands bare-chested and resolute.His hands are clasped behind his back, his muscles taut.A figure cloaked from head to toe in blood-red velvet cuts into his skin with a gilt dagger.The bloodletter’s face is veiled.Her bone white hands are her only bared skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Remember,” she intones.She draws the dagger slowly from his upper arm, just below the shoulder, across one pectoral and down to just below his sternum.“The gift.”Her blade echoes that same movement from the other side.The watching crowd is deathly silent, barely a breath drawn.“The sacrifice.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed and I stand several paces behind the king.We don’t need to see the marks drawn to know the shape of them.The same emblem stains my own skin, tattooed in blood some twenty years ago, the same mark once worn by the king’s dragon before he died.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is Rynnwald Solem Sa’Nova, King of Nadara, The Righteous Sun, King of the Blaze.He cuts an imposing figure.He is tall and broad shouldered, his long dark hair knotted at the base of his skull.A scar is slashed across his grim face from one temple to the opposite cheek.His gray eyes are set and knowing and he is utterly unflinching.If the dagger’s kiss pains him, I wouldn’t know. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has taken this mark every spring for the past twenty-five years, giving his flesh and blood to honor the death of his closest ally and dearest friend.It is at once a celebration and a memorial — of the end of the war, of the territory reclaimed, of the many lives lost.Grief and joy mingle, intertwined and inseparable.This, being the quarter century, is a special occasion.Typically, we herald this anniversary in the capital of Soliss.Today, we commemorate our victory a scant hundred paces from where the battle ended.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The dagger cuts its final line and its bearer steps back.Blood drips from her wicked blade.It runs over the guard and down the hilt, staining her bone white fingers a deep, bright red. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We do not take in vain what has been given freely.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her voice is a rasp, the rough scraping of bones on glass, but it is so deathly quiet in the square that even that sound carries.She kneels and her velvet cloak pools around her like blood.It’s a moment that feels strange and thin and too long, a moment stretched taut by too much silence and too many waiting eyes.Suddenly, the bloodletter throws the dagger with shocking agility straight into the air above her.With a flash, the blade and the blood transform, one into a dove of pure white, the other one of deepest red.The crowd gasps as the birds soar upwards, twining around each other as they ascend, their forms melting into a single shape as they grow into distant shadows silhouetted by the sun. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like the earth beneath us, we persist; we rise from the ash.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed glances at me, nervous that I might have forgotten my role.But how could I?It’s tradition, after all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I step forward, already shedding my robes.The sun is welcome on my skin.I shift eagerly, unfolding into my true form with a relieved sigh.The leather harness I was wearing under my cloak grows with me, enchanted to match my body as needed.It is a frivolous magic and one that erodes quickly, like rain washing away seeds planted too shallowly, but it is useful nonetheless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed grabs onto the pommel at the base of my neck and leaps astride.A moment later I surge into the air, up, up, above the crowd and away towards the sprawling clouds.The sun reflects off my golden scales in a blinding refraction of fierce, untamable joy.The watching crowd looses a cumulative gasp.I hear their wonder, their fear, their adoration.Several people fall to their knees, openly weeping as their hands move from earth, to heart, to brow, to sky.There is a hunger in them, a desperation.This far from the capitol, people are unlikely to encounter one of the golden few.The last time one of us blessed this soil, it was to water the land with his heart’s blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As if feeling where my mind has wandered to (and it is likely he has), Caed’s left knee presses gently into my side.I fall into our choreography, arcing and rolling and diving, as easy for me as breathing.I revel in the feeling of the wind whipping past me, the satisfying burn of my wings stretching to their fullest, the freedom of an open sky with no people or buildings to crowd me in. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’re practiced in this tribute, Caed and I, and he bears my acrobatics with a sort of grim elation.He’s not free in the way I am, for if he falls he will surely plummet to his death, lest I catch him, and he’s never been very good at forgetting that bit.But I think there is something inescapably wonderful about flight, something so pure and bright that not even Caed can worry himself out of all the fun of it.The harness helps somewhat, I think — the pommel he has gripped in one hand, the stirrups, the leather strap that will pull tight behind him should he slide backwards.Still, I can’t be too brazen with my precious cargo, and so I keep my more stomach-churning maneuvers to a minimum.For the most part.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I loose several gouts of flame for the benefit of the crowd.I can only barely hear the cheering through the roaring of the wind whipping past me.Caederyn lays flat against the length of me and I fold my wings in against myself and twist into a tight, spinning dive.The wind is nearly deafening as it rushes past us.It’s exhilarating and awesome — for me, at least.Though Caed can feel my delight, I know he feels the experience rather more chilling, mentally and physically.His poor human body can only handle so much.I do my best to emit enough heat for the both of us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That night there is feasting and fireworks.Long tables have been erected in the city square for our celebration.All are welcome to join and folks from all over the surrounding towns and villages have journeyed here to take part in the festivities.We gorge ourselves on a bounty of food and drink, all harvested from the Valley of Ash and paid for by the crown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Through it all, our king sits composed at the epicenter, a single point of stillness in an ocean of celebration and grief.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stay in Cindwick for a full week.Our king, in his wisdom, remains to take this rare visit as an opportunity to tend to of all manner of boring kingly matters.My prince, with that terrible sense of obligation, decides to stay so that he might help.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We linger so long that our final night in Cindwick is Caed’s twenty-sixth name day.There is a small celebration amongst our own party, a pleasant dinner held in the hosting room of the inn.After the feast a week prior, it rings hollow.I feel the small amount of pleasure in Caed’s heart wilt as the king departs early to attend to other business.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the dinner draws to a close, I pluck at Caederyn’s sleeve and look over my shoulder towards the exit.I glance back at Caed and move my eyebrows meaningfully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed furrows his brow and frowns.“What are you doing with your face?Stop it.It’s unnerving.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes.“Come on.Come with me.”I stand and tug at his sleeve again.“We’re getting out of here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We have to leave in the morning,” he replies uncertainly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, and we’ll leave in the morning,” I say slowly, as if explaining to a child.“And we’re also leaving now!Come on.Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed scowls, no doubt resenting my tone, but he stands regardless.“Fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not quite believing my success — and not wishing to push my luck — I immediately loop my arm through his and tug him into the hallway and out the front door.No one stops us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guessing beforehand that Caed’s name day party was going to absolutely blow, I did some probing around town in search of anywhere that might be a bit of fun, with or without my royal baggage.I lead us down the main street, a pep in my step and Caed on my arm.We come shortly to a bustling public house, one of the few buildings still lit up inside at this time of night.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You walked here very directly,” Caed observes.I push the door open and we’re greeted with a barrage of sounds and smells: the sour tang of long-spilled mead, the crescendo of a heated argument, the slow swell of satisfied laughter, the tiresome ramblings of an old fae denier.“Feon… did you do research?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Research!” I guffaw.As I step inside, I feel the satisfying crunch of stale peanut shells beneath the heel of my boot.“Caed, I <em>talked to people.</em>Research is for terrible bespectacled mouth breathers locked up in dingy towers with nothing better to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed seems about to say something, but stops short when he realizes that the denizens of a nearby table have spotted us.It doesn’t take more than a cursory glance to guess at our identities.Prince Caederyn on his own is not necessarily immediately recognizable — after all, he is not the only tall, dark-haired, brooding sort with the finances to fund a decent wardrobe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rather, it is me and my particular coloring — hair that is too golden to be described as blonde — and his proximity to me that reveals his identity.That first table of patrons turns to raise their mugs towards us and slowly the rest of the pub cottons on. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed stands frozen in the doorway until, exasperated, I pull him the rest of the way inside and let the door fall shut behind him with a heavy thunk.Inside, it’s warm and dimly lit and without the chill night breeze it’s almost humid, the air made heavy by boozy breath and sweaty bodies.A fire crackles blithely in a hearth on the far wall.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean back slightly and murmur to my prince: “I may have given them some forewarning that you might be looking for further entertainment after the culmination of tonight’s festivities.”I grin up at Caed, who is looking somewhat taken aback.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You… right,” he replies, sounding nearly winded.“Okay.”He hesitates for a moment and then asks, “Did you tell Captain Elske of your plans for tonight?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes and usher him further towards the bar, where I lay down a whole mess of coinage in front of the barkeep and order several rounds for the entire pub.The woman’s eyes go wide and greedy and she hastily begins barking out orders to her staff.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Obviously, yes,” I reply, raising my voice a little to be heard over the crowd.“I rather like my head where it is, thanks.”Caed still looks more apprehensive than he does appreciative, but this seems to mollify him somewhat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the barkeep sends out her servers with trays weighed heavily with drink, I call out to the pub at large:“To Prince Caederyn Elio Sa’Nova, Heir to the Nadaran Throne, The Noble Sun, and my dearest friend.Tonight we drink to his health!”A cheer fills the tavern and the barkeep slides us both mugs filled so near the brim that some drink sloshes over the top.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not long before I spy a table that is of particular interest to me.Drink in hand, I pull Caed with me to join a group of loud humans around our age.Some of them are even fairly good looking.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Evening,” I say, grinning. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are greeted with much enthusiasm.“Evening, Your Grace — err, Your Graces?”The speaker is a young man with a shock of bright red hair and a toothy grin.I wave him on, unbothered by his lack of grace, and he recovers and immediately sets about procuring our seating, swiping a couple free chairs from a nearby table.The rest of the table’s inhabitants have shifted their own seats to make room for us.The redhead sets the chairs down in place and grins, wide and toothy.As I take my seat, his hand lingers on the back of my chair for a moment before he finally resumes his place in the seat to my right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Err, good evening,” Caed says in his charmingly wrong footed way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I notice several of our new companions eyeing him speculatively — and a couple throwing glances my way as well.I’m used to it.I’m not sore on the eyes by any means, but, well, I’m not the crown prince of Nadara.Sometimes I curse the leggy bastard for his luck and how little he uses it, but at the end of the day my love for him runs deeper than any resentment ever could.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl to Caed’s left smiles prettily up at him.“I know Cindwick must be terribly boring, Your Grace, but please don’t begrudge our provincial city for its dearth of spectacle.What we lack in amenities, we more than make up for in hospitality.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her voice is low and sweet and she has those big, dark doe eyes that I can tell hide a deep cunning.She may have lucked into the one remaining seat next to our prince, but I rather think she orchestrated the move.At any rate, she is certainly dressed like someone who thoroughly intends to take a prince to bed.With tits like those, perhaps she can manage it.Beside me, Caed’s face has taken on a new warmth.Perhaps it is from the drink, but I doubt it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s very, err, kind of you,” Caed replies.She is going to eat him alive.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Drinks are shared all around and we get to introductions.The doe-eyed girl is named Renée.Her family oversees the largest farm in the area and she thinks herself to be somewhat important — relatively speaking, of course.I rather suspect her aspirations are aimed higher than Cindwick elite.She might do well if she ever manages to escape this provincial life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The red-haired boy is Aurik and he is Ogren born.His family moved here ten years prior in search of more steady, civilized work that ran less risk of encountering pesky fae.I eye him thoughtfully.The Ogrench have a long and storied history of parlaying with fae and other such creatures.People whisper, of course, and I’ve heard it said that if you stand in a room full of Ogrench people, like as not more than half their number cannot truthfully claim to be wholly human. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Ogrench are a disparate, scattered people.They welcome the wild folk, the oddballs, the loners: those individuals who have been formed just left of conventional acceptability. The Ogrench people have a reputation for eccentricity.And monster fucking.Lots of monster fucking.Unfortunately, Aurik isn’t sitting quite close enough for me to discern his scent from the general odor of human bodies and alcohol amongst such a crowd.Pity; it’s always fun to bed someone not wholly human.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From the back of the tavern comes the plucking of a mandolin and our group turns to offer applause as a gaggle of threadbare musicians starts up a boisterous tune.I don’t know if this was planned beforehand or if someone ran to rouse this troupe after our arrival.Regardless, we are all several cups in and with much laughter and joking, our group rises asynchronously from the table to claim the only standing space in the pub for our dancing.They do it differently in the country — for all that I’ve had my share of raucous good times in the city, there is a spirited gaiety to their rustic jubilance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The basics remain the same — a quick tempo, a rousing beat and dancing that focuses on footwork and mobility— but proper dancing allows for little to no physical touch amongst participants.That is very much not the case tonight.Though we happy revelers may have started in neat lines, before the second song ends our formation has dissolved into a mess of giggles and shoddy footwork.Many amongst us list awkwardly to one side or the other, clinging to one another to remain upright.We are all of us young and alive, our faces flushed in equal measure from drink and from exertion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aurik is giggling helplessly on the floor where he collapsed after I spun him perhaps a little too enthusiastically.Grinning widely, I pull him back to standing.He wobbles for a moment before stepping into my space and kissing me.His arms move to twine around my neck.He’s a good few inches taller than I am and he’s all loose-limbed and relaxed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hands on his hips, I guide him backwards until he’s steadied against the edge of a table.His lips are soft and eager and his breath is terrible, but it’s by no means a bad kiss.And finally, I can discern his scent from that of the crowd.Aurik smells like sweat and apples and something else.It’s musky and bitter but not altogether unpleasant.I break our kiss and drink him in: his parted, kiss swollen lips, the feeling of his fingers digging into my shoulders, the press of his erection against my hip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m vaguely aware of someone wolf whistling in our direction and I turn away from Aurik to laugh as they heckle us good naturedly.He leans into me, lips just shy of my neck, his humid breath ghosting over my skin.I can see now that we’re not the only ones who have decided to get a little handsy.Several other couples have broken off to flirt and kiss.I glance over to the bartender, a woman in her early forties.She seems in equal measures irritated and amused to have her bar overrun by amorous twenty-somethings, but she is not so nettled that she’ll turn down good coin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My gaze falls to Caed, who is surrounded by a gaggle of bright-eyed admirers.They’re all still dancing, their movements enthusiastic and disorderly, made clumsy by laughter and drink.Caed even looks like he’s managing to have fun for once.There is a high flush in his face and an utterly helpless smile on his lips.He has no idea what his face can do to people.It’s a horrible thing to see — horrible and deeply charming.As I watch, Renée grabs his shoulder, ostensibly to steady herself, while <em>coincidentally </em>pressing her bosom into his arm.I realize I’ve left my poor, dear, defenseless prince to the wolves.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I give Aurik a kiss on the cheek.He whines as I detach myself from his embrace and join the crowd.Near half the bar is up now, dancing and laughing and kissing.There must be something in the water — or, I suppose, the mead.I hold my hand out wordlessly towards Caed and I see the look of curiosity on his face as he notices the gesture.Still, he takes my hand with neither question nor hesitation, and I pull him into a wild, jubilant dance that leaves us both red-faced and panting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed’s gaggle of admirers joins us readily.There’s so many bodies pressed so very closely together now.Someone — Aurik, I think, for I can feel the evidence of his arousal and smell the sharp sweetness of apples — presses into me from behind and I stumble forward into Caed.For a moment, our lips brush and my prince looks surprised.I place my hands on either side of his stupid, handsome face and pull him down into a real kiss, one with feeling and, more importantly, tongue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we part, Caed is all aglow and laughing, laughing, laughing.The bar is a blur of lights around us.As Caed turns his head, Renée leans into him and they kiss, sweet but not without bite.Someone gives a loud whoop and when they break apart, Renée wears her triumph proudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aurik’s thumb finds the curve of my jaw and alights for a moment on my pulse point before he tips my chin up and back to meet him for a hungry, lingering kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we wake the next morning, there’s a large group of us sprawled across the tavern’s largest room.Many of our fellow revelers begged off at various points in the night, stumbling bleary-eyed to their nearby homes, but a good number stayed behind.I have a distinct memory of vastly overpaying for a profoundly mediocre (though relatively large) room for the night.If I’d been smarter (or at least more sober), I might have thought to simply book the inn in its entirety.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Someone amongst our group had the brilliant idea to pillage the tavern for all its blankets and pillows and must have trolled through all the empty rooms and closets to find a good number of them.The two beds in the room are stripped bare and the floor is piled high with our ill-begotten bounty.Still, a rather considerable number of our group have managed to share the two beds, with even more of us strewn about the floor and the single pathetic armchair, which looks not long for this world.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend my first few moments after rousing feeling pleasantly warm. I luxuriate in a patch of sunlight and in the gentle give of a body beneath mine.My head feels warm and muddled and honey-filled.The sweetness of last night’s mead has turned sour in my mouth, deliciously foul in the way only a night of revelry and bad decisions can be.To my left, Aurik sleeps on his side, his mouth open and drooling, shirt laces undone, one hand resting possessively on my lower back.To my right, Renée is curled up against Caed, her breasts near spilling out of her dress, her dark hair a sprawling mess of tangles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Caed… Caed is beneath me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My prince is splayed out on his back in the center of the room in the most cushioned portion of the floor.His head is tilted slightly to one side, his thin lips just parted as he snores gently.I rouse to find my face pressed into his neck, my forehead kissed by the rasp of his scruff, my nose filled with the spicy scent of his soap.I’m half atop him, my hand on his chest, one leg thrust between his.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes me a rather embarrassing amount of time to realize this.It’s his scent that does it: not just the spice of the soap, but the scent that is distinctly his, the one I could recognize anywhere, a heady fullness I can never quite put words to.It’s the smell of Caederyn, of home.I curl into him, still not fully awake, and filled with a deep, pervasive contentment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel, then, the pressure of him hard against my leg.It’s a particular detail that takes several long moments for my head to grasp, like waiting for the last grain of sand to trickle down the hourglass.A ready flush rises in my cheeks.I raise myself slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his sweet, sleeping face.My crop of short curls falls forward over my brow and I think perhaps I am close enough to press a kiss to his lovely mouth — only, he is sleeping no longer.Caed smiles at me soft and unguarded, all his usual tension and worry melted clean away.He is close enough that I can feel his breath, warm and sour, on my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as Caed winces and lets out a small groan.He raises a hand to cover his eyes.Though I don’t share his pain, it echoes sympathetically through our Bond, that distinct ringing of a truly magnificent hangover.I laugh, distracted, and raise a finger to my mouth.I shift one of my canines to grow long and sharp and with it I prick my forefinger.Smiling, I press a dot of my blood to my prince’s mouth.He accepts it silently, his lips closing around the pad of my finger, his tongue darting forward to catch my offering.A few moments later he exhales a sigh of relief and his hand lowers from his brow, his headache eased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then he’s there, just inches away, his dark eyes open and regarding me soberly with my finger pressed to his lips and I feel suddenly wrong-footed.I can’t seem to move, to speak, to think.I can hardly breathe.His lips part and I can see him thinking, noticing, feeling.His face colors slightly and I think he must have finally felt the tension between us, the unconscious intent in my finger on his lips, the pressure of his cock against me (and, well, the answering heat of my body — it’s not as if I can claim to be unaffected).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a moment when I remember the feeling of his lips last night, the taste of his laughter and the alcohol on his breath.We lay there, together, completely still and I realize we’re both thinking about that night, that kiss.There is a rising heat between us.It’s a terribly fragile moment, no more than a breath between the serenity of half-waking and the cold thrill as we grow suddenly, thoroughly conscious of one another.Caed looks away, face red, and it’s gone.I immediately draw my hand back as if burned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We need to get up,” Caed rasps, his throat dry.“We likely should have left already.I’m certain our company will be inconvenienced by our dalliance.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leaves it unspoken that our lateness will irk his father.He doesn’t need to say it, I can read it in the tension in his mouth.Caed sits up and I slide back to sit in front of him, our legs still mingled, but everything else about us separated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine if we’re a little late,” I try to reassure him.I know the moment has left us despite the lingering softness within me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he replies.“We’ll need to prepare for our next trip as soon as we reach home.There’s much that needs doing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Our next trip?” I ask, surprised.I worry my lower lip, disconcerted that this is the first I’m hearing of this.“Where are we going?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed is silent for a good few moments.I watch him curiously but he won’t meet my eyes, likely still embarrassed and overly conscious of my proximity. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, he answers: “Voswain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull a face, “Oh, Solene’s tits, do we have to?I’d rather not freeze my bits off, thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I expect something: a small smile, a look of exasperation — anything to lessen this tension between us.I get nothing.Caed’s hands are fisted tightly, one resting on the floor, one over his lap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve decided to accept Allene’s proposal.We’ll depart soon for an engagement celebration and then she’ll return with us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His words hit me like a ton of shit covered bricks.That fullness, that lightness, that happiness, which were so strong within me just minutes ago, go out in an instant — a brilliant flame snuffed by a sudden, violent downpour.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, all the weight of my soul held in that one syllable.I have no idea what sort of expression I am wearing.I can only watch as the force of my emotion reverberates through our Bond and reaches Caed.I know it hits him when I see him wince.“You never… You didn’t say anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed shrugs uncomfortably and rises to his feet.“It… it was a decision I needed to make for myself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I remember when he received the proposal months ago.He’d shown me her letter wordlessly and we’d both taken a few minutes to be baffled before (I had assumed) the topic was succinctly dropped and her proposition politely refused. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As royal children, Caed and Allene (and by association, myself) have had irregular contact throughout the years, coming together whenever there was cause for intercontinental celebration.I know Caed and Allene have exchanged letters with some regularity as well.He used to read them to me, though they were so completely boring I might as well have not heard them at all, for all the information I retained.He eventually gave up on including me and kept them to himself, an act I found only mildly less annoying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose congratulations are in order,” I say, not believing the words coming out of my own mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not until I look up and see him staring down at me impatiently, his hand held out, that I realize I haven’t moved from the floor.I take his proffered hand and get to my feet.I marvel at how his hand, which felt so warm last night, now feels cold and clammy.I jerk my hand back from his and cross my arms over my chest, squaring my shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We depart with dead air between us, just us two in the early morning light of an irritatingly beautiful day.We leave a room full of happy, slumbering young fools behind us.Though the events of this day have resounded loudly in my mind and heart, I realize that all together, it has been a quiet morning.Funny how I can only hear his words booming in my brain: <em>It was a decision I needed to make for myself</em>.We are Bonded, always together, made whole by each other, separate only in death.King Rynnwald lost his Yuen a quarter century past and grieves him still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” Caed says, after a long silence.“I really appreciate your support.”I almost feel like laughing.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Terrible Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello it's time for me to remind you of that explicit content rating aka hello and welcome to baby's first smut writing</p>
<p>also i'm posting some art and a playlist and that sort of thing on my twitter (mayakern)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Feon</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An icy wind blasts me directly in the face as I stare out over the elaborately carved limestone balcony of Whithelm Castle.It’s beautiful in the summer: a towering mass of glittering white stone jutting out of the rushing waters where the Urva meets the Chatlin, forming the great Virgis River.The palace sits on a slope of black rocks over which white waters roil and tumble and blanched stone surges from the frothing river as if raised from the spray itself.A single massive bridge on the western side connects the castle to the city of Harrogate.On the east, across the wide expanse of river, stand the sheer cliffs of the northern edge of the Ashalt Range.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In summer, the sky would be an open expanse of blue, the wind a delightful kiss of coolness on a warm day, but now it’s just past the year’s first quarter and our home of Nadara is already well into spring.Here in Voswain the sky is a dark, bleak gray and the Virgis thunders bitterly beneath me.Even several stories up, I can feel the thrum of it in my feet, the sound a roaring so deep that it’s in my bones.The mist of rushing water slams itself violently against the black rocks below, reaching even this height and leaving any person about the palace exterior perpetually damp and utterly miserable.Beneath me, large chunks of ice flow by, unhurried in the tumult.The snow has the gall to beset me from either side, unbothered by the wind’s course, hissing as it evaporates against my skin.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s almost satisfying, the way it all matches the deep, seething resentment festering within me.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve been dressed and ready for the engagement ball for ages: my best leather boots over fine white trousers and a stiff knee length tunic in Nadaran red over top.The tunic is split at the sides from hem to hips, where it is sashed at the waist in gold.I wear a matching embroidered stole wrapped diagonally around my torso.One end is pinned where my waist sash meets my lower back and then pulled across my right hip.The other end is draped over my left shoulder, where it then falls freely to meet the swell of my calf.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of the girls had attempted to get a comb through my hair before I snapped at her, my face glinting gold with a flash of scales, a small puff of smoke blowing into her open mouth.With a shriek, she fell backwards onto the carpet before scrambling to her feet and hastily fleeing the room.I savored her reaction for a good few moments before noticing Caed’s displeasure.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t go scaring the help just because you’re unhappy,” he said as Mikhail, his primary attendant, helped ease him into a long sherwani coat.It was heavy with golden embroidery and beading, tailored to fit close at his arms and torso, and cinched at the waist with a belt of gilt fabric. From the waist down, it flared and split to a hand span below the knees.In true Nadaran form, it’s an ornate and layered look, with a lighter gold-trimmed white cotton skirt falling beneath the coat and over a pair of narrow white trousers and golden slippers. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re not accustomed to your temper here,” he continued tiredly.Caed, of course, had his two favorite retainers seeing to his grooming; with our plans to hasten our travel across the Ogren wilderness, it was decided prudent that I not do the same — not that I particularly need them.I’m often expected to look a little wild.Caed, on the other hand, must look perfect, with not a single hair out of place.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I left then, glowering all the while as I stormed out of the central lounge chamber that joined our rooms.I slammed the door behind me and rushed into my own room and threw open the large balcony doors to stand, furious, in the frigid open air.My hands now clutch at the cold stone parapet and I aim a little kick at the intricately carved railing, right in the center of one of the abstract roses — Voswain’s emblem.It does nothing save scuff up the toe of my boot somewhat, and I spend the next few minutes nursing a throbbing toe while trying to work the mark out of the fine leather.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fé.”His voice is soft, almost too quiet to hear over the roar of water beneath us.I whip around, half seated on the cold stone, and hastily get to my feet.Caed stands several paces before me, just inside the room.The wind howls between us, cold and desperate.Behind me, the sun begins to dip below the cliffs, limning the icy edge with molten gold and throwing us into shadow.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Solir,” </em>I say.It’s a Daenian word: Bonded, Soul, Sun, and a million other words all wrapped into one.They all mean the same thing: you, vital, blood and life and fire.It’s a word dragons only had cause to make when the first of us set their heart to a mortal and forever bound us as kin.I don’t think Caed knows what it means.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed hesitates.Though he does not understand its true meaning, he has some grasp of the gravity of the word.Much as I love him, he is still human and can only comprehend so much.“Fé,” he says again, voice somber.“Please come inside.I know you are angry with me, but I need you.I need you with me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean back against the railing, shoulders tensing up towards my ears, hands clutching at frosty stone.I can’t look him in the face, at the vulnerability there.I slump forward and grit my teeth, gaze cast down towards his feet, hair hanging over my brow.We’ve been through it already.The ten days from Soliss to Harrogate were fraught with tension, resentment and frustration boiling over into verbal jabs and minor spats.“You ask so much,” I bite out, cold and bitter.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” he replies sadly.He stands quiet, hands outstretched, golden bangles clinking on his forearms, rings glittering on his fingers. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not his words that do it, but the slow tremor I watch travel up the length of his body before he begins to shiver in earnest.I push myself away from the railing and into his space, my hands reaching up to clasp either side of his face and stare into his dark, earthy eyes.“I will be by your side,” I say finally.I lean up and press a small kiss to his cheek.“It will have to be enough.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leave him in the doorway and return to the central chamber, where I finally submit to another servant’s fussing.I bear it with ill temper, but bear it all the same.It’s unnaturally quiet now, the river’s thunder shut out by stone and enchantment alike.Beside me, Jasper affixes three strands of pearls to Caed’s coat, at either side a sun pendant pinning them in place just before the shoulders.A wide swath of finely embroidered red fabric is then pinned at one shoulder and draped loosely about his arm and down his back.Fussy as ever, Jasper, his mouth full of pins, checks and rechecks all the fastenings to ensure their security.Finally, Mikhail slides a simple band of gold into place on Caed’s brow, where it is framed on either side by the lazy waves of hair that kiss his jaw.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Our little prince is all grown up,” Mikhail sniffs with mock sorrow.I suspect the emotion in his voice is only half in jest.He claps Caed warmly on the shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jasper smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in Caed’s coat and mumbles something about making his father proud.I don’t hear it above the pounding of my blood in my ears.I feel my throat grow thick with emotion as I face Caed.He holds his hands out, palms up, a wordless question.I nod back at him, unable to speak.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Overstatement is the fashion in Voswain.We stand behind a large set of dark doors made ornate with silver filigree.They’re tall enough to account for a man twice my height and then some.On the other side of the doors, a high and melodious voice calls out, “Prince Caederyn Elio Sa’Nova, Heir to the Nadaran Throne, and his retinue.”The doors swing open, silent and unaided by human force, and a servant clad in deep blue ushers us forward.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We step out onto a massive set of wide, shallow stairs, the tread and rails a gleaming black, the rise glittering silver.Caed heads our party, descending with a practiced elegance.I keep my chin high and my eyes fixed above those of our onlookers.I can feel nervous energy radiating from Caederyn through our Bond, like the tremors of a high wire when a performer begins her egress.To his credit, it doesn’t show. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The stairs open on to a floor of deepest black, kept open at the center for dancing.Round dinner tables mark its perimeter.At the back of the room, raised up on a dais, is a long banquet table, which seats the Voswainian royal family and those highest in their favor. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a hush in the room as the amassed guests watch Caed step to the dance floor and halt.His eyes rest at the center of the far table, where sits his future bride.She stands.Even from this distance, I can see her beaming.A stony bitterness settles upon my heart.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We walk a straight line across the ballroom to the dais and then up several stairs.Time feels stilted and strange, like I am experiencing the major beats but losing the moments in between.Suddenly, we are there before the long table, mere feet away from Caed’s future.It’s a long walk down the length of the table.Jewel-laden heads turn to watch as we pass them, their faces appraising or appreciative.I hate them all.At last, we round the corner and there at the center of the table sits Princess Allene Yvonne Fidele Narissara Briallen, third in line to the Voswainian throne, my future queen.She smiles wide at Caed as he moves to her side.She takes his hands in her own. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My dear Prince Caederyn, it pleases me immensely to welcome you into my home.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed smiles back down at her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is tall, only a couple inches shorter than he, and they both dwarf me by a near ridiculous amount.She has a natural grace to her.Allene came into puberty earlier than most of us and had no qualms flaunting the changes wrought, as if she’d never seen an awkward day in her life.She has the same look now, but grown: her chin lifted with pride, those generous lips never far from laughter, a full figure and heavy bosom providing ample distraction for the wandering eye.Her black eyes glitter with a secret joy.There is a particular look about her, as if she is party to some private joke that she has not yet deigned to share.It makes me hate her intensely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess Allene,” Caed replies.The silver of Allene’s full skirted ball gown reflects in his dark eyes like two tiny starbursts.“The pleasure is mine.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And in defiance of all decorum, Allene leans forward and kisses him right then and there in front of the high table and everyone, as if she were so eager she simply couldn’t wait any longer.The assembled guests don’t seem to mind.They make their enthusiasm loudly known with laughter and applause.I stand behind Caed, face frozen, hands clenched.The members of Caed’s personal guard pass behind us to stand unobtrusively at the back wall with a number of Voswainian royal guards.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are then seated.Allene and Caederyn take the center of the table, and from them radiate a number of jubilant guests, arranged in order of favor.The two Voswainian queens, Queen Esther and Queen Fateen, head the table’s ends on either side in tall, throne-like chairs of intricate silver work.Amongst the guests are scattered Allene’s five siblings.All of them wear the Voswainian silver and blue, but none so radiantly as she.Allene sits to Caed’s right with me at his left and on my other side is a familiar face, a Larish noble named Lysithea Ballard. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” she greets me unenthusiastically.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lysithea,” I return with perfunctory grace.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her gaze darts over to where Allene and Caederyn are already engrossed in conversation with one another and I watch as the barest flicker of displeasure flashes in her silvery eyes.A moment later, it is wiped clean away, as if it were never there to begin with.Servants bustle around the tables serving the guests while a band of lavishly dressed musicians begins to play from alcoves set beside the grand stairs. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m surprised,” Lysithea says to me, sounding bored.I look down at the soup laid before me and give it a cautious sniff, not quite paying attention.“I thought dogs usually ate outside.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn and bare my teeth at her.“If that was the case, I’d expect to find you out there, seeing as you’re a massive bitch.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She raises her goblet to me with a sneer.“Cheers.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I raise a spoonful of soup to my mouth and have to fight the urge to spit it out as the bitter taste overwhelms my palate.I force myself to swallow it down and follow it with a hasty gulp of wine.To my left, Lysithea grins down at me.“Well, at least I won’t go the night without entertainment.”I notice she hasn’t touched her soup.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back at Caed and find him laughing at some joke of Allene’s.A servant takes away my soup nearly untouched and replaces it with a small plate of winter salad with wilted kale, pomegranate seeds and tiny bits of goat cheese.This, at least, is a dish I am familiar with and can eat, though it doesn’t quite taste how it does back home.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A toast,” calls a familiar voice, smooth like honey, “To the union between our closest neighbor and dearest ally.May your love keep you just and true.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A hearty cheer rises from the table, to be picked up by others scattered across the banquet hall.I lean forward a bit to look for the speaker and find them easily.At the far end of the table, left of Queen Fateen, sits Halwynn Ballard, esteemed Larish ambassador, Lysithea’s parent, veteran of a lost cause.They sit with the ease of a lounging panther, their graying locs falling like a long curtain over their shoulders, accented with silver threading and beads and bits of metal.They turn slightly, giving me a clear view of the ugly old burn scars marring the right side of their face and neck.Halwynn’s black gloves are stark against the polished silver of their goblet as they raise it to the betrothed couple.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“To family, new and old,” Queen Fateen returns with a smile.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From the other end of the table, Allene’s youngest sister, a girl no older than fifteen, bursts into tears and pushes up from the table.Her chair scrapes loudly against the polished floor, a dissonant shriek that cuts through the music and conversation.She rushes to Allene’s side and throws her arms around her sister’s neck, gulping in large, unsteady breaths as tears stream down her face.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Dannica,” Allene says, regarding her tenderly.“Why are you crying?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“B-b-b-because y-you’re <em>l-leaving </em>u-u-us!!” the young girl manages through her sobbing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dear one.”Allene places her hands on either side of Dannica’s shoulders.Each of Allene’s wrists is adorned with a cluster of small, midnight dark roses, with pearl netting laced up her forearms.“I will not be so far.”She smiles and presses a forefinger to the girl’s breast.“I will always be <em>here.”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dannica glares at her then, her pointy little chin jutting forward defiantly.“I am not a child!” she exclaims angrily through her hiccups.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene grins.“But I got you to stop crying, didn’t I?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The younger sister regards Allene with an air of deep betrayal.The girl named Dannica chews on her own silence as she struggles to find words.“Fine!Leave!See if I care!” she says finally and stomps back to her seat at the far end of the table, glowering the whole way.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs and raises her goblet again and says, “To ensuring I make you all miss me less.”Allene is glowing.I’m not certain if it’s happiness or some trifling magic, like the way her long, dark curls are ornamented with tiny, shining stars scattered throughout.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Many more toasts follow and we all drink heavily, enough that midway through dinner I find the Voswainian cuisine almost tolerable — that is, until a servant lays a covered dish in the middle of the table before me and removes the silver lid with a flourish. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sitting on a large silver platter is a strange dish I’ve never seen before: a vaguely hemisphere-shaped concoction of orangey pink.Atop, there are petals shaped of the same strange substance, radiating from the center like a sunflower.As far as I can tell it is all of the same mold, as I can see no delineation between the curvature of the main form and the petals.At the center of the petals, where the seeds would lie were it a real flower, is a mound of corn, and all of it — hemisphere, petals, and corn — with a strange, glistening coating.I poke it experimentally with the butt of my knife and the entire creation jiggles in place before springing back.I pull a face at it, feeling a deep mistrust.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I catch Allene looking at me and feel my face grow hot with embarrassment.I hastily pull my knife away from what I assume is some sort of gelatinous monster, slain, carved up, and served cold.Allene laughs.“It’s just salmon in aspic, Feon,” she says.“It won’t bite you.”I note that she has a similar dish in front of her, but instead of fish it is filled with an assortment of fruits.She’s already cut herself a slice and is eating dainty forkfuls.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, I can feel Caed’s displeasure radiating from our Bond.I glare at him sidelong.“Is there something I can do for you, <em>Solir?” </em>I ask through gritted teeth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please try not to insult our hosts after they have seen to celebrate us so warmly,” he says quietly, leaning in so only I hear it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course, <em>Solir.</em>And while I’m at it, would you like me to get on my knees and kiss their feet as well?I do live solely to serve your pleasure, after all,” I hiss bitterly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed startles backwards slightly, a look of surprise and hurt writ on his features for a moment before he smooths it away.He turns, then, and says to Allene, “My dear, would you do me the immense pleasure of joining me on the dance floor?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs and places her hands in his, “Oh, Love, I’d grown so impatient waiting, I’d half a mind to ask you myself!”They stand together, hand in hand. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they cross behind my seat, Caed pauses and leans in to mutter, “Feon.Behave.”I slump back in my chair, feeling a deep shame burning in my gut, slowly smothering my anger.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they turn away, I catch Allene’s eyes once again cast in my direction.She gives me a small wink and I decide, after all, perhaps anger <em>is</em> the right call.Stewing in my own ire, I watch as the two of them take to the dance floor, a matching set of silver and gold atop a black stage polished to such a high shine, I don’t realize that the silver pinpricks in the floor are reflections until the couples pass over them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look up and am awed for a moment.The curved ceiling has been painted to look like the sky at midnight, with small inlaid pricks of precious silver glittering like stars as they catch the light.These, then, are what I saw reflected below.The deep blue of the ceiling fades quickly down the walls, giving way to the soft purples and pinks of daybreak, which then shift to the pale, serene sky blue of morning.Dispersed along the walls and tables, the inlaid carvings and the balcony, are roses, roses of darkest midnight blue with crawling vines rendered delicately in silver. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find one affixed to the back of my chair and run my fingers over it.I am surprised to find that it is soft to the touch.The dark petals are velvety as they should be, the leaves appropriately thin and vegetal, and the thorns just as sharp as any I’ve felt before.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re real, you know,” Lysithea says as she rips off a petal with her long bronze fingers and flicks it at me.“It took many years of selective breeding.And, well… magic, of course.”She sits angled towards me now, straight backed, one long leg crossed neatly over the other.She has, unfortunately, grown up hot.Her slow sneer is infuriatingly becoming on her sharp face, which is framed by silver-white hair cropped severely at her chin.Her attire is masculine, comprised of a stiff white and silver skirted jerkin over a black, bishop sleeved doublet.A single, long earring dangles from her left ear.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back at the dance floor, watch as Caed spins Allene slowly in time with the music, holding her close, a smile softening his long face.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How come you don’t wear dresses anymore?” I ask Lysithea, forgetting the flowers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s called <em>style,</em> you uncultured lizard.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I look fine!My clothes are perfectly fine!” I bristle.I am, in fact, wearing my best.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I suppose they are perfectly well made, but one should strive for more than simply <em>fine.</em>Your wardrobe shows no personality, no panache.It’s absolutely and fundamentally boring.”As Lysithea shifts in her seat, light glints wickedly off the silvered toe and heel of her tall black boots.They hit her at mid thigh and under them she wears a pair of white hose striped with delicate lines of silver thread.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back at her, see the hard set to her mouth as her eyes trail the betrothed couple.Many others have joined Allene and Caed on the dance floor, but none shine so brightly as they.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just because you’re wearing pants doesn’t mean you’re making some sort of daring statement.Humans wear pants all the time,” I say with a huff and cross my arms over my chest.Allene has her arms around Caed’s neck now, both of his hands at her hips, as they gaze into each other’s eyes.Every now and then they speak to each other quietly.My stomach turns with the nauseating intimacy of it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel a sudden, sharp pain in my upper thigh and yelp, “Fuck!”.Turning, I find Lysithea tugging a delicate salad fork, its tines stained red with my blood, from where she had embedded it in my leg, in a place where my tunic had ridden up to expose my trousers.“What the fuck was that for?” I bark, livid.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You got boring,” she says calmly, twirling the fork absently between her fingers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, fuck off,” I say venomously.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My outburst was loud enough that I seem to have drawn some attention, if the appalled looks of our table mates are anything to judge by.A young woman with a high twist of blonde hair wreathed with overlarge feathers is standing frozen just off to one side of my chair.Her mouth hangs open in an unbecomingly scandalized expression. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I help you?” I ask sourly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her face goes an ugly blotchy sort of red.“No — I — err — uhm!”She turns and flees, picking up her skirts to hasten her retreat.Little bits of feather trail behind her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slouch back in my chair, arms crossed, fuming.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, I think she was about to ask you to dance,” Lysithea remarks coolly as she butters a biscuit.“Pity.It would have been nice to have gotten rid of you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, fucking <em>fine!”</em>I hiss.I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel it then, a dark note of displeasure plucked on the tether to my heart, the Bond that ties me to my prince.I look out over the dance floor and find Caed watching me from over Allene’s shoulder.He wears a look of deep disappointment on his face, one that clearly says: <em>If you’re intent on embarrassing yourself and, by extension, me, the least you can do is be out of sight. </em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The glances from other guests sting.Some of the guests have begun to talk in low voices, pointedly not looking at me, sometimes raising a hand to smother a laugh.None of them seem to have noticed the instigating spark: Lysithea and her damnable salad fork.I spare a glance back towards her and see her eating her biscuit with calculated poise, but I can see a glimmer of mischief in her silvery eyes.My face colors a deep, horrified red.At the end of the table, I see Halwynn sipping smugly on their wine.As they catch my eye, they raise their goblet in my direction and the man seated next to them lets out a low bark of laughter.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I flee.I pause at the back of the ballroom just long enough to bestow the duty of the prince’s safety upon Captain Elske and tell her that she’d better not fuck it up.She raises an eyebrow, unamused, and watches silently as I skirt the room, grab a flute of champagne from a passing server, and all but run up the wide, sweeping staircase on the other side.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I circle to the far side of the balcony, away from the smattering of small groups and couples scattered across.I find a private nook hidden by a pair of large marble statues, immortalized in their longing.They form an informal arch, each of their bodies leaned in towards the other as if pulled by gravity, their arms outstretched and reaching.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take a minute to lean against the handrail and down my champagne.I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and stow the empty glass at the foot of one of the statues, wishing I’d thought to grab a second.I glower down at the pretty dancing couples, all turning in time with the music, the women’s full skirts twirling like stupid, fluttery flowers spinning in the breeze.Even among the finery of all the other dancers, Caed and Allene shine, like comparing common stars to the sun and moon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you not fond of dancing, Lord Feon?”A dark figure settles against the rail a polite distance away from me. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look up, irritated that in addition to watching Caed fall in love with someone else, now I have to deal with a mouth breather as well.I get them every now and then, people intent on ingratiating themselves with a proper dragon.He’s a large man with a ruddy face and a wild mane of hair that he’s attempted to tame into a low tail at the back of his head with middling success.He has the look of a bear made to sit through grooming for the circus before being stuffed into a suit that doesn’t quite fit.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply disdainfully.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Me neither,” he says blithely, oblivious to my discontent.His massive hands dwarf the railing to a near comical extent as they curl around it.“Events in Ogren are a bit less hoity toity, you know?”He gestures towards the silver inlay in the walls, the glittering chandeliers, and the whole of the ballroom.His seams strain against the movement.“I’m still not used to, well…”He reddens a bit.“I’m just a bit new at it all, you know?”He wears the deep green of Ogren, trimmed sparingly with copper thread, which I note is coming undone at one of his too-short sleeves.His clothing has the distinctly overtaxed look of having been long outgrown.When I turn towards him and take an experimental sniff, he smells untamed, more than human.Interesting.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ll acclimate eventually,” I reply, turning to slouch back against the railing.“Or they’ll eat you alive.”The man blanches and I grin wickedly.“But you’re right, these parties can be terribly stuffy.Personally, I prefer Ogren’s offerings.Here, I feel like I’m suffocating.”I tug at my stiff collar with the crook of one finger and watch as his eyes follow the motion.He swallows thickly.I cock my head to one side and regard him keenly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands there transfixed for several moments before blurting, “D — d’you wanna — I mean, would you like to get some fresh air?”He looks fit to bursting with nerves.“Outside.With — with me.”His eyes are wide with supplication.“Please,” he breathes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spare a glance back down towards the dance floor.Caederyn is laughing, Allene held reverently in his arms, as if she’s precious.My eyes flick back up towards the Ogrench man, his hands balled anxiously against the railing.I could use a good distraction.“I thought you’d never ask.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I push off the handrail and we set about looking for somewhere to get some air — though I haven’t yet forgotten the biting cold of Voswainian spring.We pass through the ostentatious double wide doors out into a wide hall lined with even more doors.To the left of us a door opens, music blaring for a moment as a couple stumbles out, laughing, before the door falls shut behind them and they head towards the ballroom.We pass them and I start opening doors at random, irritated to find none of them empty, the occupants staring at us dumbly as we peer in, only to promptly leave.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We find a lounge, a powder room, a lavatory, a music parlor, and a trophy room — all of them occupied.Finally, I pull open the door to a large closet halfway filled with coats and blessedly empty of occupants and I grab my companion’s wrist (though my fingers can’t circle its entirety) and drag him bodily inside after me.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This isn’t—“ he starts, surprised, but stops as the door swings shut behind him and I grab his face in my hands and tug him down towards me.“Oomf!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s absolutely fucking freezing outside, so unless the fresh air is really what you were intent upon, here’s as good as anywhere,” I breathe.Large, heavy coats press in around us and I shove him back into the door.His surprise quickly turns to fervor and he spreads his lips open for me, welcoming my kiss.I bite at his bottom lip and he gasps.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hands hover nervously around me, as if afraid his touch will hurt me.As if.I growl impatiently and press my hand against the growing thickness in his trousers.I hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the rush of his warm exhalation against my neck, and then his hands fall to my hips, too gentle, his thick fingers creeping around tentatively to my ass.I squeeze him, hard, taking great pleasure in the whine caught in the back of his throat as I thumb over the clothed tip; I feel the pressure as he curls forward to lean into me, all heavy bulk and muscle, massive and nearly suffocating.His chin presses into my shoulder and his breath rasps across my skin, hot and wet and greedy.He smells like musk and earth and sweat and honey with a bite of something sharp and gamey at the edges.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I push my tunic aside and attempt to undo the buttons on my trousers one-handed, fumbling awkwardly for a few moments before giving up in frustration and hurriedly going at it again with both hands.Thumbs in my waistband, I drag the fabric down, pants and trousers both, and fist my semi-hard cock.“Down,” I hiss urgently.He doesn’t seem to understand for a moment, still focused on kneading the globes of my ass with those giant hands, so I kick him hard in the shin until he yelps and his leg buckles.I seize the moment of his unsteadiness and reach up to place both my hands atop his shoulders shove him down to the floor.He makes a half broken sort of wheeze as I grin down at him, surprise and pain forming his mouth into a perfect “o” that’s now level with the head of my steadily swelling dick. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My cock gives an eager jump in my right hand while my left hand cups his face, thumb moving to his full, slack lips, brushing them gently before pushing in and spreading them apart til his mouth is open and waiting for me to press inside.I breach his lips with just the head, first, reveling in the velvet warmth of his mouth and the barest hint of teeth.I feel the shudder of his breath on my sensitive skin, watch the tide of his hunger rise, and soon he’s letting me in deeper, his tongue sliding wet and sloppy along the length of me. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes fall closed and his nostrils flare as he takes me down to the base, cheeks hollowing, a moan half-stifled as he swallows me down obediently.My hands fist in his coarse hair, tugging him forward as I thrust shallowly, groaning as he constricts around me, throat working to take all of me, spit dribbling down his bottom lip to his chin.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I thrust again and his throat flexes in an aborted swallow, trembling around me as he chokes down his gag reflex.I laugh and pull him off my cock, then drag the tip against those swollen, wanton lips, luxuriating in the feel of it.His face is all wondering and open, eyes wide and hungry for me.“That’s a good look on you,” I purr benevolently, cupping the side of his face with my hand.He lets out a sort of pathetic, high keening sound and leans forward to nose at the base of my dick, tonguing my balls attentively.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come now,” I say, grinning, watching the way his eyes follow the bobbing motion of my cock.“Off with those.”I bend down til we’re nose to nose, breathing into his open mouth, and my forefinger trails a line down the front of his trousers, stopping just shy of the very noticeable bulge begging for my attentions.His breath catches and his hands scramble clumsily at his belt buckle, all desperation and no dexterity.I kneel before him, then, and impatiently push his big, oafish hands out of the way.I tug his belt free of his pants with a speed that makes the leather crack like a whip before I toss it aside.I jerk his fly open, ripping off several of the buttons in my haste.I don’t care.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still kneeling, I lean forward, back arching to meet his mouth with my own, utterly dwarfed by him and completely in control.Our kiss is all teeth and hunger and he yields to me readily, caving as my hands move to either side of his neck and I nudge him back until his shoulders hit the door and he’s half sitting, half lying beneath me.Mouth thoroughly occupied, I slap his hip lightly a couple times until he gets the idea and he lifts up his hips to shimmy his trousers down below the thick curve of his ass.I break the kiss to tug his pants the rest of the way down his legs, struggling a bit around his slippered feet, then toss them behind me into the back of the closet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lays back, panting and exposed, his massive cock heavy and weeping against a full belly covered in thick, dark hair.I drink in the sight of him for a moment, the power of him, a towering body of muscle and fat, built for strength, made gentle and wanting as he cedes his being to my will.I crawl forward a bit, one hand bracing my weight on the cold floor next to his chest.The other trails over his skin, down the gentle curve of his stomach, to ghost over the length of him, which is already slick with precum.He whimpers.My hand slides from the head down the base and I thread my fingers into the coarse curls nested there, then give a short, sharp tug.He groans, tensing for a moment before exhaling a huff of frustration as my hand moves lower still to the crease of his ass.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pause and concentrate, thinking about my fingers growing slick with a thick wetness.After a moment, they do.It’s a small, frivolous magic, but a very useful one.I press the tip of my middle finger against the tight muscle of his ass, waiting for him to relax before I breach it.His breathing is fast and shallow, and he stares back at me, propped with his back against the door, his eyes wide and bright, as I sink in him down to the knuckle.He exhales sharply.He’s hot and tight and wild for it, and when I curl my finger inside him, he makes this sort of plaintive gasp. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The smell of him is thick around me.When I look back at his face, his teeth have grown long and sharp.His hair has escaped its tie and gone wild about his face.When I add a second finger, he lets his mouth hang open and practically starts panting and I feel like I’m watching the untaming of him.My cock twitches wantonly against his thigh, slick and eager.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I coax him open with three fingers, nosing up the hem of his shirt as I do until I’m able to bite one of his hard, dark nipples.He jumps and his ass clenches around my fingers as he lets out a strangled groan.Grinning, I draw out of him and he makes this desperate sort of keening sound, pathetic and utterly hot.I spread his thighs apart and fill the empty space between them with my body.I’m almost painfully hard.I grit my teeth as I grasp my cock in hand and press the blunt head of it against his slick, wanting hole.He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a rasp of air.Once his chest fully deflates, I push in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His ass burns wanton and hot.I watch his face as I steadily press into him until I am sheathed to the hilt.His face is red with blood and his body is trembling.I lean in against him, lavishing the tender skin of his chest with teeth and tongue, as I can reach no higher on his body.His powerful thighs wrap around me, calves tucking in behind my hips.Slowly, his eyes open and he looks at me with the fixed gaze of a man whose entire focus has been narrowed down to his own pleasure.I smirk back at him and begin to move, my hands finding his hips as I start to build up a rhythm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His voice is a rumble in his chest.His hands move to the back of my neck, drawing himself up as he pulls me to him.My hips move faster, fucking him deeper, balls slapping against his ass, and the sound he makes is wild and desperate, a howl of pleasure.I smell the coppery tang of blood and look up to see his canines have lengthened and curved, bloodying his lower lip.A growl forms low and heated in my throat and I grab his thighs and press them back towards his gut.I only realize I’ve started to shift partially myself when I feel my claws dig into his meaty flesh and see the glint of golden scales climbing up my arms.He cries out again, beastly and beseeching, begging wordlessly for me to fuck him senseless. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a ripping sound and watch as his shirt, already strained to its limit, bursts open as his chest expands further.Fur, coarse and thick, has sprouted from his flesh, and I take great joy in sinking my claws in deeper, knowing he can handle it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull out of him as slowly as I can, reveling in the wrecked sound he makes, and drag his hips forward til his upper back hits the floor and his legs are hooked over my shoulders, a feat I would not be capable of were I truly human. I plunge back in, hitting him deeper still, and he arches off the cold floor, spittle dripping down his muzzle, all the breath fucked out of him in a single beautiful moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hips thrust frantically, knowing the mounting tension in my abdomen means I won’t last much longer.I slide a clawed hand between his thighs, letting his left leg drop forward off my shoulder onto his furry chest, and the next time I slam into him, I grab his balls none too kindly and squeeze.He makes a loud, choked sound, only barely human, and his cock jumps, spilling cum all over his beastly chest and face.His ass spasms around me, trying to close and failing, sending shivers of pleasure through him as he clenches fruitlessly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t make it much longer.A few more thrusts, my pace erratic and frantic, riding that high as he milks me for all I’m worth, and then my balls seize up and my ass clenches and my thighs burn with the strain of it all until it’s too much and I’m filling him up, gasping to completion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I crumple and let his legs flop awkwardly to the cold floor.I slide out of him and fall back on my heels, hand moving to my cock to eke out the last remnants of my orgasm against his sweaty thigh.He lays on his back, legs splayed, dick swollen and spent.His chest is heaving, glistening with sweat like a horse that’s been run to exhaustion.There are red lines of blood on his thighs from where my claws dug into him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I tuck my dick back into my pants and button myself back up before getting back to my feet.I step over his spent body none too carefully and open the door.“Pleasure making your acquaintance,” I say, grinning.“Thanks for the fresh air.”He stares up at me, face shining with sweat, mouth gaping, covered in his own cum. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shut the door behind me with a decisive click before he can gather his wits to speak.I take a few minutes to visit the lavatory and tidy myself up a bit, then I head back to the glittering ballroom, feelingly sated and almost at peace.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Her Lips, His Heat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Caederyn</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of all the things I’ve been known to be, boring is not one of them.”Allene’s voice is playful.When I turn my gaze back upon her, she is smiling.Her fingers twine together at the back of my neck, nestled in my hair.“Something is bothering you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile as best I can, trying for natural and wondering how my face must look to her.I don’t have her ease — what charm I manage is gained through practice and sheer force of will. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s nothing,” I say at first, going for reassuring.Her eyes narrow and her chin raises, a challenge, and I let out a little helpless breath of laughter.I shake my head and let my eyes slide back behind her towards the long table.“Feon is making an absolute fool of himself, is all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Prince Caederyn,” she says, and I do not think I mistake the fondness in her voice — or, well, I hope I don’t.I’ve staked rather a lot on hoping there is some amount of real affection between the two of us.“Whatever your dragon may do, tonight is ours.He can’t diminish that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She has absolutely no idea of just what Feon is capable — especially with how furious he has been of late.Turning into his dragon form in the middle of the banquet hall; getting utterly sloshed and lighting the settings on fire; behaving too forwardly with one of the noble ladies and being challenged to a duel to the death by her husband (which he would no doubt win, thus killing a titled lord on an evening meant for celebration) — I can easily think of any number of things Feon could do to cause a scene and thoroughly derail tonight’s festivities. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I try to smile back at her, but she must read through it.Calmly, she says, “If he does manage to bring tonight’s festivities to chaos, it will, at the very least, be incredibly entertaining, and would doubtlessly ensure that our engagement would not be likely to be forgotten.”I don’t know what sort of face I pull at that, but whatever it is, it makes her laugh.Her hands move to either side of my face and she gazes up at me, warm and steady and full of life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is tonight not memorable enough, then?” I ask, torn between uncertainty and amusement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tonight is <em>very</em> memorable,” she replies and leans forward to kiss me.The breath within me stills for a moment, caught in the softness of her lips.She smells of roses and honey and when she draws away from me, it is only far enough to look me in the eye.Her hands fall to either side of my neck and she smiles.“I know I will never forget it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel myself grow red in the face, feel the stutter of my heartbeat.I don’t love her, not yet, but I can’t help but be thoroughly taken in by her.I’ve always envied her easy confidence and I feel now almost as if I could take some small part of it just by being at her side.Almost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I draw in a shuddering breath and force my hands to unclench at her waist.“That’s good, then,” I say lamely, my voice coming out all gross and wobbly.Maybe if I had an actual brain in my skull I could say something better than ‘that’s good, then.’I am an embarrassment to the crown; I can feel every tutor ever seen fit to teach me writhing in misery at my lack of eloquence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” Allene begins off-handedly.One of her hands slides to my shoulder and the other clasps my hand in her own.I wonder if I’ve tired her to the point that she’s come to regret sharing a moment of true intimacy with me.“I proposed this union for a reason.”She looks at me very seriously.“And you <em>do</em> remember that it was <em>I</em> who proposed it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod, dumbly, my tongue grown thick and useless in my skull.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Try not to forget it.”She gives me a knowing look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why — “ I have to clear my throat before I can continue.“Why did you?” I ask quietly.“I know what you wrote, but — why did you, really?”I try to say it lightly but it does nothing to mask the earnest need for validation I’ve tried so hard to bury where no one can find it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So many reasons,” she says.She squeezes my hand in her own as we allow our muscle memory to carry us through the dance, her following my lead.Though the etiquette of foreign countries has been hammered into me since birth, I still find it strange to dance in such a manner where speaking is not only possible, but expected.Many of the couples around us are likewise engaged in intimate conversation.The rhythm feels almost painfully slow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There are, of course, reasons of politic,” she says lightly.“And our countries could both prosper with this union.”I know this; she hinted at these points in her initial letter and then, later, when I saw fit to discuss it with the king, they were deliberated to exhaustion. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Voswain is a prosperous country and a large one.Once a land of scattered peoples beaten into submission by the cruel climate, it now boasts a unified mass near a third the size of the entire continent of Tir Lua.From my understanding of its history, no one quite agrees on when exactly began the turning point, only that it was helmed by Ruzena the Briar Queen.Before she seized her rule she was no more than servant to the jarl, sold into indenture by slavers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is her blood that runs through Allene Briallen’s veins and it is her arcane method that unified a disparate people and brought prosperity to what was before a bleak, frozen wasteland.Much of the land is still frozen over — but while Voswain lacks in agrarian bounty, it prospers in the pursuits of arcane invention.I must admit that this is something I, too, considered when deliberating over Allene’s proposal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And, I’m certain you know, nothing bonds two peoples together quite like blood,” Allene continues unhurriedly.“Our lands have a long history of friendship,” she says lightly, though “friendship” doesn’t cover the half of it.“And I’ve always wanted to see that bond strengthened.”Her black eyes glint with some secret humor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that so?” I ask bemusedly.“Is this some secret passion of yours, then, and I am but incidental to your desires?”I try for levity and utterly fail.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand squeezes my shoulder.“Oh, Caederyn,” she says, and I do not like the amount of knowing in her voice.“I have never thought of you as incidental.”She allows me to twirl her away and there’s a gentleness to her now that’s nearly maddening.When she pulls close again, I catch her gaze over her shoulder.Allene’s eyes have gone soft with sympathy.We’re pressed tightly together, her back warm against my chest, her arms crossed under her bosom, hands clasped in mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t,” I say sharply, before she can speak.“Please.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” she says quietly.She hasn’t called me that since we were children.“I wouldn’t seek to marry someone I didn’t like.”Head turned towards me, she keeps her eyes are steady on mine.“There are all manner of reasons for us to wed, but none of them would matter if I didn’t think this could work between us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The song ends and we draw apart to applaud the musical troupe.Still, she holds my gaze with eyes full of feeling.A man approaches her then.He is older, perhaps in his mid-fifties, a bejeweled blue rose pinned to his lapel.“Caederyn, do you mind?” Allene asks and I shake my head, gesturing for them to join hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“By all means.”I depart the dance floor, making for one of the large tables stacked high with all manner of hors d’oeuvres and drinks.Wine in hand, I watch Allene dance with the man and realize after a minute that he must be her father; I’ve never met him before but he has her same deep brown skin and easy smile and the jeweled rose marks him as a queen’s royal consort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace.”I know her by her voice before I even turn to look; only Lady Lysithea Ballard could make words of deference sound so decidedly invective.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Ballard.”I turn back to the dance floor.Lady Ballard is like a coiled snake: best dealt with only when you know what specific brand of venom she has prepared, and better yet avoided entirely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Congratulations on your engagement,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I reply stonily, not knowing where this will lead but knowing that I won’t enjoy it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I must confess, I was rather taken aback when I received the invitation.”Her tone is light, almost friendly.“After all, I never thought Princess Allene to be your type.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spare a glance in the lady’s direction, catching the slight smirk on her lips as we survey the spinning dancers.“And what might my type be, exactly?” I ask tiredly.I already know I won’t enjoy the answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” she begins, and takes a sip of wine.“Not human, at the very least.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anger spikes within me and I turn to face her.“I find I am rather fond of humans, actually,” I bite out coldly.“Which you shouldn’t find terribly odd, seeing as how <em>most</em> of us <em>are</em> human.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For a moment, Lady Ballard’s face is writ with a deep and furious hatred.The next moment, her expression has gone cool and unreadable.I watch as she raises her goblet towards the dance floor.I follow the line of her arm and see Allene regarding the both of us, her feet stilled as the song comes to an end.Her father pulls her into a tight embrace and kisses her on both cheeks and then sends her off to approach us, bright faced and beaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lysithea!” she cries, and hugs the woman tightly.“I’m <em>so</em> pleased to have you here and so sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to say so earlier.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Taking Allene’s hands, Lady Ballard bows low and raises one to her lips.“You know I couldn’t miss a chance to see you dressed in your finest,” she smirks.I don’t miss the way her eyes flit down to the low neckline of Allene’s dress.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs and bats Lady Ballard’s hands away.“You incorrigible flirt,” she replies fondly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard straightens and shrugs.“We were near enough to Harrogate that I managed to convince Zaza to make a small detour.I’d half a mind to strike out on my own if they’d refused me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand back from them feeling decidedly uncomfortable.I don’t know how Allene can stand that terrible Larish duo, but I suppose it’s easier to be taken in by their blandishment when you lack a history of enmity reaching back multiple generations.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I am very glad to see you here and we <em>must</em> catch up later, but I’m afraid first I must steal my fiancé away.”Allene grins at the both of us charmingly.I proffer my arm to her and she takes it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” Lady Ballard replies, a hardness in her smile.“I wouldn’t dream of coming between the two of you.”With a bow, she departs, and Allene and I walk amiably arm in arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wish the both of you could get along,” Allene says wistfully.I blanche.She sighs.“Yes, I know you’re not fond of each other, I did grow up knowing the both of you and, also, I’m not <em>blind.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Some relations are beyond my means to mend,” I reply soberly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We walk quietly for some time, waving and smiling as the many guests greet us.We pass through the banquet hall, past the twirling dancers, up the wide stairs and onto the balcony.We find a private space to stand together that overlooks the dancers below.When I rest my hands on the railing, she lays one of hers atop mine and threads our fingers together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know the two of you are… friendly,” I say at last, feeling nerves plucking at my insides.“But was there ever…?”I watch as, far below us, Lady Ballard moves gracefully about the dance floor, twirling a young lady in her arms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.“Oh, <em>heavens,</em> no,” she says emphatically.“She’s a terrible flirt, Lysithea is.I wouldn’t take any of her attentions too seriously.”Allene squeezes my hand and I settle back, feeling my internal tension somewhat eased, though not entirely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find myself eyeing the soft curve of Allene’s lips and the generous swell of her breasts as she leans against the railing.The neckline of her dress swoops low and is wreathed in roses.Her shoulders are smooth and bare.I feel the heat of her hand on mine.She’s a beautiful woman, clever and confident and gorgeous as hell, and I still can’t fathom why she would ever take an interest in me.I feel a warmth in my chest, knowing she could have sought just about anyone, but she still picked me, and I remember the feeling of her embrace, of the closeness of our dancing, of her lips pressed to mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stand together quietly for a few minutes before she asks, “What about Feon?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blink, startled from my thoughts and embarrassed at my lack of mental propriety.“What about him?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The two of you have always been incredibly close… have you ever—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I cut her off, feeling my face heat.“No, of course not, that would be—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” she cuts in earnestly.“If you…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I say again, and this time I smile and squeeze her hand.“We aren’t… it’s not like that.I do love him, but…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a long breath.I don’t know how to put into words the many things I feel about Feon.We are so incredibly close — too close, probably.Since the moment I journeyed to Domina to find my dragon some twenty odd years ago, we have been inseparable.Sometimes, when our hearts are in sync, I feel as if we breathe together.He is possessive and immature and hot tempered and loyal to a fault.I know that he loves me.And I know, intimately, that there is nothing Feon wouldn’t do if I asked it of him and that terrifies me deeply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I understand,” she says softly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I repeat, my voice gone soft and sticky.“You can’t possibly.”I smile at her, trying to abate the harshness of my words, knowing I can’t explain how very different our Bond is from anything she has ever known. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Imagine a string,” I begin, moving my free hand over my heart, “Wrapped around the very core of your being and extending outwards, joining to another.It’s a tether, something to keep you safe and whole and protected.Sometimes there are reverberations, like plucking a mandolin, and I can feel an echo of what he feels, and conversely I know he can do the same, and the stronger the emotion, the larger the vibration.There is no shutting it off, not until we die.We will never be alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take a moment to consider my words, knowing how grim this must all sound.“It’s… we take care of each other, mostly,” I continue, eyes cast away from her.“There is a comfort in knowing that no matter what you do, you will never be truly alone.”I bite my lip.I can feel tremors along our Bond tether.Irritated as I have been with Feon, I’ve been trying to shut his emotions out, but they’re growing stronger now.Whatever he’s doing now, he seems pleased.“Sometimes, you don’t know how truly ugly you can be until you know someone has no recourse but to stay with you.Things you wouldn’t do or say that normally fear of loss of that relationship would prevent you from acting upon…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is appraising me somberly now, her eyes soft and a bit wet.“It’s not all bad,” I hasten to reassure her.“And we do love each other very much.But it isn’t… it can’t be a normal relationship.”She squeezes my hand in sympathy and I’m mulling over my next words when it hits me: a flare of emotion, a blaze of heat shooting down our wire directly into my core.I double over the railing and gasp, my hand squeezing hers too hard.Allene makes a small sound of pain and jerks her hand away from mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed!” she exclaims anxiously.“What’s the matter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I cling to the railing desperately, shoulders hunched, my head bowing low, hair sliding forward to cover my face.My breathing comes hoarse and ragged.My chest heaves wildly.I feel suddenly hot all over.The heat that had been slowly building in my body over the past few minutes has now been stoked to a blaze. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S-sorry,” I manage to stammer out.Heat grips me, wild and pure.I can feel my cock swelling in my pants as I find myself suddenly in the throes of a passion that is not my own.I feel strung out, tense, my body taut with wanting.My insides roil and burn.I am incredibly grateful for the several thick layers of clothing I am wearing and for the fact that we are currently standing against a balcony.I don’t think I could survive the shame if this had come upon me while on the dance floor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stomach cramp,” I gasp as another wave of heat rolls over me.I am going to <em>kill</em> Feon when I find him.Sweat beads down the back of my neck, slicking my skin and hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hand is at my back.The sweet smell of her is thick around me and it’s too much.My eyes fall shut and I shudder.I clench my teeth until my jaw hurts, desperate for any sort of distraction.I struggle to move one hand from the railing and shove it hastily into my pocket.I grasp around for a moment until I find it — a small pin I stashed there earlier just in case.I focus on that small point of metal, securing it between my thumb and third finger until I am able to prick the point of my index with it.I feel the moment as the pin breaks the skin and a drop of blood wells up to the surface.Relief washes over me, calming, cooling, pushing away Feon and his heat, soothing the violent vibrations of our tether.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I straighten slowly.I feel wrongheaded, misshapen.Cool air wicks the sweat on my skin and I shudder.As my hand falls from my pocket, I realize that Allene has been speaking with me frantically and I haven’t heard a thing.I turn slightly and raise my hand to the side of her face.My thumb brushes her lips, quieting her.She looks up at my sweaty, flushed face, and I can see her care for me clearly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s okay,” I breathe.“I’m okay.”I lean in and press a lingering kiss to her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed…” she says, and I can see her eyes glistening wetly as we part.“A-are you sure?Should I — should I fetch a healer or—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m alright,” I say weakly.“I need some rest, I think.Nothing unusual, I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods, one hand on my arm, her eyes wide.“Would you like me to—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be alright,” I reiterate and muster up a laugh.“I can get to my rooms on my own.I’m just going to have a lie down for a few, I think, though I would appreciate if you would tell the captain of my guard where I’ve gone off to..?”She nods at that but I can tell she is not entirely assured.I may likely find myself later facing the ministrations of her court physician.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She reaches up to push a strand of sweaty hair from my brow and then presses a kiss to my cheek.“Okay.Rest well.”I smile at her and feign ease until she turns and makes for the stairs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a groan, I lean back against the railing and card my hand through my damp hair.Silently, I curse my horny, thoughtless other half.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s just as I curse his name for the third time that I see him: I round the corner of the balcony and watch as the grand double doors swing open and Feon strides out, looking relaxed and incredibly smug.I stare at him, mouth dry, hands balling into fists. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I hiss at him, my chest tight with anger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks up, surprised, and then smiles as he sees me.<em>“Solir,” </em>he says, with the self-satisfied air of post-coital confidence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He approaches and I move away instinctively.I retreat from the doors until my back hits the wall and I’ve nowhere else to go.Hidden from prying eyes by statuary, Feon crowds me against the wall, one hand at my hip, the other moving to my face.His thumb ghosts over my bottom lip, the way mine did against Allene’s just minutes before.I inhale shakily, feeling spread thin and too hot.The smell of him is all around me: fire and champagne and sex.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re drunk,” I tell him.I don’t like how breathy my voice comes out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon lets out a bark of laughter and I feel him press against me and I can see in his smirk that he can feel the press of my erection against his hip.Even after pricking blood from my finger, I’m incredibly hard, and I’m not proud of the way my breath catches or the low groan I struggle to stifle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I say, at my wit’s end, nearly pleading.“How could you do this to us? You <em>know</em> how important tonight is.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, his smile turns bitter.He leans in and I shudder as he breathes over my neck and ear, hot and full of dark promises.“Well I hope it’s worth it, then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then he’s gone.I feel his absence as a chill, a sudden lack of heat.I press my eyes shut and let my head fall back against the wall.I let out a long-suffering moan and wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.It takes several protracted minutes for me to calm down enough to leave my secluded nook on the balcony.I exit back through those massive double doors, feeling tired in a new and terrible way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I manage the journey back to my allotted chambers without any further shame brought to my lineage, thank drake.Several guests do attempt to waylay me, but I beg off, claiming illness.In my chambers, a palace servant attempts to help me undress (Mikhail and Jasper are downstairs enjoying the festivities).I dismiss the man, saying I only need a moment of quiet and will be fine to return after a short respite.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I am alone at last, I allow myself to collapse upon the bed.My breath still comes more labored than I would like it to.I close my eyes and finally give myself up to the lingering heat in my gut.On the walk back, I’d done my best to calm myself down, but it had done nothing to abate my need.Groaning, I carefully push aside the heavy layers of coat and tunic and reach for the buttons of my trousers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When my cock springs free, it leaps eagerly into my hand and I let out a little huff of breath, knowing my release is imminent.My chest is tight with wanting and I palm myself hurriedly.I close my eyes and let my mind flood with images: the swell of Allene’s breasts, the dip of her neckline giving a generous view; her soft, pliant lips, the feeling of her hand on my back, on my neck, on my face; the pressure of Feon as he crowded me into the wall, his eyes filled with heat, the way he looked that last morning in Cindwick, his body laying languidly atop mine, the swell of his erection as his body reacted to mine, his pretty face wreathed in a halo of soft golden light.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bring myself off quickly, chasing my orgasm with a gasp of pleasure, and then with deep, heaving breaths.I feel myself undone slightly, weak with shame and guilt and desire.I press my clean hand over my face, palm pressed against one eye, fingers spread over the other.I let out a small, choked sob.There is something deeply and terribly wrong in my heart and I do not know how to fix it; at this point, I don’t think I can.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I allot myself twenty minutes for self pity, and another ten for simple exhaustion.When finally I can no longer excuse my laying about, I clean myself up as best I can before calling back the servant and allowing him to set me back to rights.When at last I no longer look like someone suffering an existential crisis, I pull myself together and return to the ball.These things last well into the early hours of the morning and I am, after all, the guest of honor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene greets me with mingled joy and relief.She had been dancing with Lady Ballard, but when she saw me descending the stairs she broke away from her dance partner to run to me and press a kiss to my face.From somewhere nearby, I can feel Feon’s displeasure radiating through our Bond, but thankfully he keeps away and the rest of the night passes without incident.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Blood, Bartered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HEY KIDS (or, hopefully, adults)... just a note before this (very long) chapter: this is a work of fiction and please don't use it as either a moral compass or an instructional manual for safe sex.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Feon</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We remain in the Voswainian capital for a full week after the ball, celebrating the royal engagement and finalizing our travel plans.It’s absolutely horrible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are dull luncheons in Whithelm Castle, with a stupid amount of etiquette and that awful, overly fussy Voswainian food I don’t care for.I suffer through a number of tedious tours of both the castle and the city of Harrogate; Allene insists on showing Caed all her favorite libraries, which he apparently appreciates, and through it all, every excursion into the public is accompanied by masses of common folk gawking and cheering, even as the cursed northern winds pelt them with snow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are so many parties thrown in Caed and Allene’s honor at various noble estates that I eventually lose count and only manage to continue through the long hours of rich sycophants attempting to politic at me by making up a game where any time one of them annoys me, I drink.I end every party blissfully shit faced.Caed keeps his disapproval silent, all critical looks and exasperated sighs, but he does nothing to waylay my own choice of festivity.When we join the Voswainian royal family for a lengthy and incredibly monotonous opera, it gets Caed all soppy and wet eyed, though he insists it’s just allergies.I think I finally find a reprieve from tedium when Caed gives me permission to join a games tournament, but I learn very quickly that having an above human body temperature is a massive disadvantage where sports of ice and snow are concerned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At one point, Allene takes us across the river fork to a set of identical towers north of Whithelm, spires of black rock and clear glass that surge from a bed of tall, soot colored briar patches and dwarf the rest of the skyline, save for the castle itself.When we exit the coach and make our approach, the vines quiver and then draw apart to either side of a door, like grim, thorny curtains.The door opens and a woman with the darkest skin I’ve ever seen ushers us inside and out of the cold.We divest ourselves of our thick outer coats, leaving them to be dealt with by an attendant.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tower interior is surprisingly spacious, more so than I would have presumed judging from the exterior, but stranger still are the walls: though on the outside the lower half of the structure is built with black stone, inside it is all artfully arranged steel beams set with glass so clear it’s nearly invisible — or it would be, if it weren’t for the snow drifting lazily outside and the mass of dark thorny vines grown ten feet high, the delineation of the tower’s wall marked where the snow ceases to fall and where the briars press flat against the glass.It’s beautiful and distressing and bright in a cold, sterile sort of way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The woman greets Caed and Allene deferentially and introduces herself as Arcanist Ebner before she begins what I can tell is a well rehearsed introduction until her gaze falls upon me and she halts mid sentence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” she says, that one syllable carrying an unnerving amount of weight.“May I?” she asks, looking to Caed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He frowns and glances back at me, “If Feon consents.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look back at the woman with trepidation.“What are you going to do?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, nothing particularly invasive,” she says blithely.“I just want to get a better look at you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back at Caed, feeling my mistrust grow.He just shrugs, though he does seem somewhat interested.I eye the tower room; the circular wall is lined by large glass cases filled with all manner of strange objects, from weapons to cutlery to a delicate silver diadem.Opposite us at the furthest stretch of wall sit several large book cases and a desk, also made of glass. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine,” I answer mulishly.“But what will you give me in trade?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, the arcanist laughs, and holds her arms out wide to gesture around the room, the long sleeves of her deep blue velvet robe sliding down to her elbows and revealing forearms laden with heavy golden bangles.Her teeth are startlingly white against the deepness of her skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you will let me take some of your blood, you may have any item you can reach,” she replies.“But only one.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scowling, I hold out my left arm and pull up the sleeve.“Just get it over with,” I grouse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All in good time,” she says absently and I watch as she draws out a pair of large round glasses with silver frames, the lenses dark and swimming with shifting colors like an abalone shell.“Very interesting,” she says, bypassing my arm to peer closely at my face.She takes my head in her hands and turns it from side to side before saying, “Open.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glare at her, but oblige, opening my mouth and suffering through her prodding.One hand moves to grasp my chin with surprising strength while the index finger of her other runs over the tip of my canine, down the front of my teeth, and then along my gums.Without warning, she grabs my tongue and pulls it to one side.I gag and my mouth snaps closed on her hand — or attempts to, but is halted by some sort of invisible barrier I can’t see. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just beautiful,” she sighs.She extricates her fingers and the barrier dissipates and my mouth falls closed.She taps the side of my face absently with one hand, almost like one might a dog.“I would very much like to see you in your true form.”Allene looks on with interest, head tilted, one hand resting on Caed’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, unfortunately, I haven’t brought a change of clothes with me,” I bite out, feeling my breath surge out hot and angry from between my clenched teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah,” she says knowingly and taps her nose.Her septum piercing jostles with the motion.“I can help with that, if that’s what you would like in trade.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll think about it,” I mutter and thrust my bared arm out towards her again.“Now let’s get this over with.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs again as if she has no concern for the danger I could pose her, if granted my prince’s permission.“Ah, youth.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shakes her head and draws a jeweled silver dagger out from one of her sleeves and with a flash she scores a deep line across the tender underside of my forearm.Blood wells to the surface, thick with life.To one side I hear a small intake of breath and glance up to see Allene turning away, her skin going slightly gray as the blood rushes from her face.I let out a derisive snort and clench my hand into a fist, watching as the skin around the cut begins to form into scales, my body already working on healing itself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My gaze flits to the arcanist, who is staring down at my blood with such rapt attention that a shudder runs through me.She grips my wrist tightly and angles my arm to deftly collect my blood into a small crystal bowl.Her hand is like ice on my skin, burning against the heat of my scales.By the time my arm has completely healed over, she has nearly filled the bowl and I watch, feeling slightly light headed, as she gestures with a hand and the bowl seals into a perfect orb, which she then sends flying into an empty spot in one of her glass cases.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, then,” she says, satisfied, and claps her hands together.“What can I get for you, young drake?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look about the large tower interior, swaying slightly as my eyes rise to the distant ceiling.Caed moves to my side and steadies me, his arm a solid weight around my shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s an illusion,” I say, and point upwards, to where I can now see the faint shimmer of magic in the air, disguising the chamber above us.I had found it rather odd that this tower would only have one room, one floor.Well, then, that explains it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Arcanist Ebner beams.“Ah,” she says, the glass of her spectacles swimming with colors as she moves her hands lazily through the air around me.“Very good.Your shift, then, it makes you more attuned to magic, yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I start to answer but then gasp and let out a choked sound as her fingers pluck at something immaterial in the air before me, something that tugs at the core of me.Beside me, I feel Caed wobble slightly, his grip on my shoulder tightening to the point of pain.The Bond.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop it!” I growl, sick with the wrongness of it, my anger a rolling blaze within me.I can feel my skin hardening as it shifts to scales.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The arcanist pulls away and that feeling, that invasive grasp, vanishes and both Caed and I can breathe more easily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all, and lifts her glasses off her nose to rest them atop black hair cropped so tightly to her scalp it’s almost a second skin.“But you are <em>fascinating,” </em>she breathes, unbothered by our troubles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Arcanist—” Allene begins to object, her face troubled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have <em>no right!”</em> Caed exclaims, nearly yelling, red faced and absolutely furious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The arcanist blinks at him slowly, as if she’d forgotten he was there.“No, of course not,” she says tonelessly, and makes a low bow.“My apologies, your grace.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, Caed is seething.“Feon — just — pick out whatever it is you’re taking for your boon so Allene can conclude her business and we may leave.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as Allene approaches Caed’s other side and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder and I feel a bitter possessiveness grip me.It is not her place to soothe him, especially not when it was our Bond that was so callously violated.Caed’s arm is still tight around my back and I can feel him forcing his breathing to slow.Anger does not sit easily with him the way it does with me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What was it that you mentioned earlier?Something to aid with my changing form?” I ask the arcanist tersely, eager for this entire excursion to be over with.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, yes, of course,” she responds eagerly.I watch as her hands move through the air again and flinch at the memory of her touch.A bundle of colorless cloth flies from one of the cases, passing seamlessly through the glass and into her hands.“This,” she says, hands grasping the fabric at one end and letting the rest of it unfold to its full length, “is a Shiftweave tunic.”She runs her fingers across its surface and I watch as the cloth ripples with faint color.“It will not be destroyed by your changing, but stay as part of you while your true form emerges.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s ugly,” I say flatly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, is it?” she asks, her eyes dancing with mirth.I watch, then, as she runs a finger across it again and it shifts to match the tunic I am currently wearing — creamy white, split at the waist and falling below my knees, long sleeves loose at the upper arms and fitted beneath the elbow.“How about now?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare at the perfect replica she brandishes before me and scowl before reaching out to grasp it in one of my hands.The fabric feels near identical to what I am wearing now, though perhaps somewhat softer, and if I look closely I can see again a faint shimmer of color.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What sort of fabric is this?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Magic, carefully distilled and then constructed by my hand,” she says, and releases the garment into my grasp so that she can gesture around the expanse of the tower, “as is everything here.Woven specially after much study and experimentation.You may find similar garments elsewhere, but none that will last as long or perform as well.”I can feel it, too, feel the soft magic of it resonating against my skin, almost slippery but not unpleasant.“Is the bargain complete, then?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look back down at the tunic, running the fabric between my fingers.“Yes,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.”The arcanist pulls Allene aside, then, and they begin to converse in low tones.Caed gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and then drops his arm and I feel the lack of him as an absence of heat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” Caed says quietly, “For bringing you here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look up at him, tunic clutched to my chest.“For you,” I say, “I would do so many worse things.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know what sort of deal Allene struck with the arcanist, but when we depart her arms and those of our attendants are full of a number of heavy books.She even has Caed and I carry a few.As we settle into the carriage, she opens a chest sitting before her feet.I had wondered, before, why there was a trunk in the middle of the carriage and had assumed it some strange Voswainian custom, but apparently she was just waiting for this particular excursion.I watch, bemused, as she carefully stacks books into it one by one.They shouldn’t all fit — not even a third of them should all fit — but when the last of the tomes is set neatly in the chest, there is still room to spare.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There we are,” Allene says, satisfied, before closing the lid and locking it with a small key.“Thank you both for accompanying me.I had wanted to show you around a bit more, maybe even take you to the school, but, well…”She lets her words dwindle and then heaves a shrug.“Feon,” she says, then, and I look up from the garment I can’t help but keep studying.“I’m sorry about Arcanist Ebner’s behavior.If I had known…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fold the tunic and set it in my lap.“Are all of your magicians that ill mannered?” I ask scathingly.I watch Allene flinch, knowing the insult carried in my words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s not —”Allene sighs and presses her fingertips to her temples.“She was very rude, yes, but she is still a skilled practitioner of the arcane and not some petty charlatan.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But she’s still human,” I reply, regarding Allene imperiously.“Human with no real magic of her own.That’s why she wanted my blood.For my magic.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Allene bites out, her teeth grinding together.“But still—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is this even made of?” I ask, holding the tunic up again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” Caed chastises tiredly and lays a hand on my knee.“Please.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can see, in the tension of Allene’s face, that I am trying her patience, but that for whatever reason she has made up her mind to make nice with me, a decision I am intent on making her regret.She takes a deep breath and then asks in a level voice, “Would you like me to try to find out?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you?” I ask, ignoring Caed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps.”She holds out her hands and gestures for me to pass the tunic to her, which I do reluctantly.For some reason I don’t want to let it go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as Allene pulls a bag from one of her skirt pockets and from that, a small black pouch secured with silver string.She opens the pouch and very carefully takes a pinch of shimmering powder from within before tying it back up and stowing it away.She scatters the powder over the garment’s surface and then blows gently, her eyes intent on the swirling movement of the particulates over the fabric.She studies the cloth for several minutes, her eyes glazing over, mouthing silent words to herself.After the first minute it is incredibly boring, though Caed seems to disagree.He is rapt, watching as Allene does whatever the hell she thinks she’s doing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s tricky,” Allene says at last, breaking the silence and blinking hard.“Hard to put a name to it.Being that it’s Shiftweave, it stands to reason that its essence is rather amorphous.The weft and the weave are different though — one thread for shifting its form, another for melding into flesh, and both of them thick with magic.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brow furrowed, she hands the tunic back to me and as I take it, a plume of powder rises from it and I sneeze loudly.I rub my nose on my sleeve and Caed makes an aggrieved sound.“Well that’s interesting in and of itself,” he says finally, when it becomes apparent that I have no intention of thanking Allene.“Thank you for trying.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sighs and sits back and leans to stare out the window.With her massive dress pooled around her, she takes up the entire seat opposite us.“I did try, but I’m nowhere near as learned as Arcanist Ebner.Still, I do my best.”She gestures down to the chest at her feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You did very well,” Caed replies.The genuine warmth in his voice makes me sick.I turn away from the two of them to stare out the window as the bleak, snow covered city passes us by, tunic clutched in my lap.</span>
</p><p>                                                                                                    </p><hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our final morning in Harrogate is heralded by a boisterous parade.Allene’s entire family, including the two queens, her five siblings, twelve royal consorts, and a truly alarming number of cousins, as well as various other loved ones, including Lysithea, have gathered in front of Whithelm Castle to bid her goodbye.It’s not exactly pleasant.We cluster in the outer bailey, the space between the interior and exterior walls.It’s unnaturally quiet, the roar of the river and the fall of snow and the spray of the water kept out by some sort of enchantment.Whatever the nature of it, it doesn’t mitigate the frigid climate or the rushing winds and I can still feel the rumble of the river underfoot. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as, over and over, members of Allene’s family rush to her, pulling her into their arms, tears frozen in their eyelashes and upon their cheeks.It’s rather awkward to be witness to this, but separate from it, and I quickly withdraw from this uncomfortable display of raw affection and move, instead, to examine the company we’ve assembled for this journey.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are two carriages — one for Caed, Allene, and I, and one for Caed’s two attendants and the two ladies set to accompany Allene, along with our three guards: Captain Elske helming our carriage along with young Lonan, while Sieglinde mans the companion carriage by herself.As far as royal entourages go, it’s a rather ridiculously small party, not much larger than the one we arrived with. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We had originally planned to form a larger company with all the trappings of a more robust royal escort, which would have forced us to take a more traveled and less direct route back to Nadara as the area west of the Ashalt Range is notoriously untamable and is not territory crossed by the more casual traveler.However, when Allene heard that this concession was being made for her comfort, she insisted stubbornly upon taking our original route back until even Caed grew too frustrated to refuse her.I might have liked her for it, if I didn’t already hate her so much.So it was arranged that we would travel as lightly as possible while still maintaining our safety and a second envoy would depart after us, carrying more of Allene’s retinue as well as the bulk of her possessions and a truly staggering number of gifts, taking the longer, better traveled route.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hands clasped behind my head, I stride over to Caed’s guards, who are standing about seeing to our ruby red swiftwyrms, double and triple checking their tack, ensuring that their decorative bridles sit comfortably and the tug buckles that connect to the stagecoaches are secure.The beasts stamp their metal hooves impatiently, their scaled hides gleaming in the pale morning light, feathered manes cascading artfully down their long necks.They always have a sort of quiet grace to them, but when they’re all kitted up for public display they look truly regal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, then?” I ask, approaching Lonan as he pretends to check on one of the swiftwyrm’s harnesses while surreptitiously feeding it a sugar cube.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm?What?” he says, standing up straight and moving his hands behind his back, his tawny skin going red, a nervous tremble to his overgrown page cut.When he sees that it’s me, he visibly relaxes.“Oh, yeah, not much to do ’til they’re done over there.”He gestures back towards where Allene’s youngest sister is crying, her arms in an iron vice grip around Allene’s neck, sobbing violently into the fur collar of her older sister’s cloak.“Could be a while.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a groan and drag my hands down my face.“This is when I finally commit murder,” I say, aggrieved, as one of the swiftwyrms noses carefully into the hood of my coat.Its hot, wet breath is welcome in the chill morning air.“You know, real murder, as opposed to like ‘oh no we’re being attacked, time to save Caed’s ass’ murder or ‘yes killing is allowed in this tournament but no Feon you can’t just join it, you’re a dragon, that’s unfair to the real contestants’ murder.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lonan lets out a nervous huff of laughter, breath rising as a white puff from his lips.He’s young and bright eyed and much easier to rattle than Sieglinde or the Captain, which is why I’m particularly fond of him — or at least, fond of messing with him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe,” he says with attempted levity, his words punctuated by the distinct clatter of metal hooves against stone as the swiftwyrms shift idly in place.“Maybe <em>don’t</em> do that.You know.In case you wanted a second opinion.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t do what?” Sieglinde asks good naturedly as she comes up behind us and drops her hands simultaneously, one to my shoulder, the other to Lonan’s.Her face is even redder than normal, no doubt from the cold, and I note with irritation that she isn’t wearing a coat even though it’s freezing out.“Are you feeding the cartwyrms sugar?” she asks, noticing Lonan’s hands.He shifts hastily, turning to face her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says guiltily as he tries to hide the evidence, even as one of the swiftwyrms sticks its entire beaked muzzle into the hands he has cupped behind his back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I have some to feed them too?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Lonan starts, “Ye—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, you three,” Captain Elske calls sternly from the driver’s box, her mouth downturned disapprovingly at the corners.Instantly, Lonan and Sieglinde jump to attention and even I straighten a little.“Places.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a last pat to one of the swiftwyrm’s scaly sides, I hop into the front stagecoach and savor my last few minutes of solitude before the door opens and Caed is helping Allene ascend the step into the carriage body.She sits neatly opposite me and even in a stagecoach of this size, magically enlarged on the inside, her skirts take up a considerable portion of the open space.She smiles at me, her eyes a little watery, and I glare back before letting out a huff of breath and turning to look out the large back facing window. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed settles in beside me and glances down at the large chest in the center of the coach.“Brought some things to pass the time, then?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene smiles back at him.“Just some light reading.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes, utterly disgusted by their idea of flirting, and as we finally start to move, I watch as the assembled crowd cheers and waves, scarcely a dry eye among them.From across the coach I hear Allene sniffle quietly.Caed leans forward, then, his face soft, and takes her hands in his own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t imagine how this must feel,” he says kindly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, don’t,” Allene replies weakly, and I can hear both the tears and the smile in her voice.She takes a deep breath and attempts to collect herself.“You’re just going to make me start crying again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you’ve already lost that battle,” he says.Allene lets out a small, wet laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’re passing over the bridge between Whithelm Castle and the city proper, now, and it is, quite frankly, awful.The white stone bridge rises in an arc over the waters seething distantly below us.To my left and right there is only water, the sheer cliffs distant behind the castle at our backs, the looming city of Harrogate before us.Feeling a little sick, I withdraw from the windows and slump in my seat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Never thought I’d see a dragon unnerved by heights,” Allene says with a small laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glower at her and imagine throwing her out of the coach and over the bridge.“If I was out there flying it wouldn’t be a problem.But in here I’m stuck in this body and if I shifted while still inside, I’d likely crush the both of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we enter the city, the roof of the coach folds down and Caed and Allene stand together, arm in arm, smiling and waving at the masses.People flock around us and a procession forms behind us, a crowd of jubilant celebration, shooting off magical fireworks and confetti and all manner of things.I sit stoically in my seat, face turned away as my prince lets Allene draw him into a kiss.When we at last crest the city’s border, the crowd halts and Allene watches with wide eyes as her people grow steadily more distant, cheering and waving all the while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once out of the city, we make good time, our swiftwyrms carrying us smoothly down the road, passing all the horse drawn wagons and coaches traveling south along the Virgis River.As we speed by them, I see the other, more ordinary travelers turning to look, some even sticking their heads out of their own carriages to gawk.We must look quite a sight: two large, beautifully carved golden stagecoaches lead by four ruby swiftwyrms each, our beasts adorned in full golden kit, tassels and all, their golden plumage cascading down their long necks, tirelessly serene and near twice as fast as the normal traffic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We arrive in Wrexil in the early evening.It’s a small but affluent suburban town, home to many lavish villas for those not keen on life in the bustling city, or perhaps those in need of a vacation home.No crowd forms to follow us, but all around, the well-to-do pause and bow their heads as we pass.We stay in a sprawling manor, home to some cousin of Allene’s, and spend a night eating horridly fancy food and making boring, polite conversation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We reach Bronell late the next night, our swiftwyrms exhausted, their scaled hides gleaming with melted snow, feathered plumage damp and ruffled.We are received enthusiastically by the Marquis Deering Briallen, Allene’s uncle, Queen Fateen’s eldest brother.He keeps us up well into the early hours of the morning, eating and drinking and playing games.At some point I crawl under a table to hide, bleary eyed and desperate, so that neither he nor his people can force me into any more festivities.I wake up some time later in Captain Elske’s strong arms as she carries me to my room, Caed tottering tiredly after us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next morning, we sit in a stupor at breakfast, all looking and feeling as if a spectacularly localized whirlwind has ravaged our persons.Only Captain Elske seems unaffected.Eventually, Caed grunts at me and I remember to burn away my own hangover before pressing a bead of my blood to my prince’s lips.Allene watches silently, a hand pressed to her forehead.Caed frowns at me and I sigh and I hold my thumb out to Allene as well, a single pinprick of blood sitting at the surface of my cut.She studies my face and then leans forward and presses her lips slowly to my thumb.I glower at her the whole time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, I have to begrudgingly admit it was the right move, as I don’t think we could have managed the citywide farewell party the Marquis arranged for us otherwise.We spend much of the day consumed by the spirit of celebration.Allene and Caed hold court atop a glittering float of gold and silver that blares the sound of heralding trumpets and chorusing cherubs every few minutes, while the city’s citizens fill the streets with their jubilance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next morning we take to the large port at Bronell’s southern end, and a lumbering mass of still inebriated citizens hobbles after us, the last stragglers of the previous day’s festivities, following as we prepare to take a barge across to the southwestern shore of Lake Ladeon.It takes some doing, getting both the coaches situated, as well as our eight swiftwyrms.The common swiftwyrm can be quite temperamental and flighty, but ours are not so.The poor beasts aren’t particularly fond of the water, though ours have of course been raised to endure all such hardships for the benefit of their royal charges.Still, I join Lonan in soothing the group, he with bits of sugar and I with softly crooned words in Daenian.They don’t speak the tongue, but they can understand it, to an extent, as it is with all dragonkin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once we cross into Ogren, the weather warms, still decidedly cool, but temperate enough that we exchange our heavy winter cloaks for lighter ones.We spend a night in Brunne, the last real city we’ll be seeing for some time, and Allene seems very pleased with how she is managing to “rough it,” sharing a room with her two ladies for the night.I don’t do a very good job of hiding my amusement and Caed knees me covertly under the table as we eat our breakfast.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If one had only ever traveled through the tamer parts of Ogren — the borders or perhaps the capital of Verlante — I can see how they might not think it much different from any other wild portion of the continent.To be certain, the trees grow somewhat bigger, reaching heavenward far above our heads, and perhaps the forests may be more densely packed, but surely a forest is just as any other.It would be folly to think so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are places in Ogren where the trees curve overhead, joining in an archway of leaves and bark and moss, so thick the air grows black and dense.It is much too easy to realize only too late that you have entered the cave of a massive slumbering beast, its chest rumbling with a snoring that shakes the earth itself.There are places in Ogren where the earth suddenly gives way underfoot and what once seemed like solid ground is nothing but open air, a cavernous sinkhole, darker than the night itself and filled with a cloying, wet heat that smells of rotting vegetation and decaying flesh.There are places in Ogren where massive, glowing mushrooms grow in thick swarms and a single misstep sends plumes of toxic fumes into the air to choke the unsuspecting traveler.There are places in Ogren where the trees grow so tall you cannot see the canopy, but only an inky darkness high above, the thick tree trunks stretching upwards like massive, unending columns that ascend into nothingness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Every journey through the deep wilds of Ogren — and we have made many — brings with it a new curiosity: fresh footprints, twice as wide as Caed is tall, found passing by our small camp at dawn, but we neither saw, heard, nor felt any trace of a creature of such a size traveling near us through the night; a knocking at our room’s window that persisted throughout the night, though we slept on the second floor of the inn; the sticky, wet sound of hundreds of eyes opening and closing as we lead our swiftwyrms to the riverbank to drink; a particular grove of flowers we know to have passed just an hour ago, but we can’t possibly have looped back upon our path as our compass pointed in the same direction the entire time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">These are the simple phenomena; they are often deadly, to be sure, but in a way that can be predicted and explained and planned for.In Ogren, there are things of a darker nature, things I cannot explain nor describe.It is not wise to travel through these parts without a guide, and even then your safety is not guaranteed — but, then, most traveling parties aren’t helmed by a dragon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three hours out of Krenich, we come to a dazzling forest glade: an open, perfectly circular clearing that glows with golden sunlight no matter the time of day.Everything is brighter here: the sun, the grass, the leaves, all of it sparkling with a breathtaking beauty.Lining the perimeter of the clearing are tall, slender trees: all of them bone white and spaced perfectly equidistant apart.At the center of the clearing sits a charming white cottage with a thatched roof and a tidy, colorful garden.Little puffs of smoke rise from the chimney, like tiny, cheerful clouds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stop short of the glade and Captain Elske raps her knuckles on the roof of the coach.I get up from my seat wordlessly and hop down from the carriage, onto the thick underbrush of the forest floor.I pass our swiftwyrms, patting one of them absently on the withers as I do, to stand just before the ring of bone trees.I pull a dagger from my pocket and slide the blade into the palm of my left hand, which I then press to the bark of the foremost tree.I hold for a full minute, watching as my deep red blood drips down the bleached wood.Once my scales have knit over the cut and the wound has healed, I turn back towards our party.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I do, I find Allene leaning out the open door of the stagecoach, her long dark curls hanging down over one shoulder.She looks at me curiously.I step back up into the coach and push past her.Since leaving Voswain, she has traded in her lavish, full skirted gowns for simpler travel dresses with slimmer silhouettes and considerably fewer underskirts, but even still I manage to trip over the hem of her dress on my way.I stumble into Caed and he catches me, his hands holding strong against my upper arms, his face only a few inches from mine.We stay like that, frozen, for several breaths, before the click of Allene shutting the coach door rouses us back to our wits.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I resume my seat and lean against the carriage wall and close my eyes.As we set off again, I exhale deeply and remind myself that Allene is who Caed wants; she is who he has chosen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we make camp that night, we are, for the first time, too far from any form of civilization to sleep with a roof over our heads.We make camp quickly, Captain Elske giving curt instructions as we rush to set up before the last of the natural light fades.It is often hard to tell the hour in the forests of Ogren and there are places where time never seems to move, but for the most part the delineation between day and night is clear, at the very least.We do not want to be out traveling at night.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time the evening chill has set in, the two stagecoaches have been altered into makeshift bedrooms, our four tents have been set up, there’s a fire blazing happily at the center of our camp, and the swiftwyrms have been untacked and are in the process of being led to walk in a slow circle around our small clearing to ensure they cool down properly.Sieglinde sets a massive pot atop the campfire and begins to add in ingredients: cooking oil, most of the mystery meat we bought in Krenich (we thought better than to ask after its origin), two full onions, several peppers, garlic, tomatoes, beans, several pungent herbs and spices, some water, and curry paste.Sometimes I think Captain Elske chose to promote Sieglinde to Caed’s personal guard simply because in cases where food was not freely available to us, we would not suffer from the lack of a chef.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Add these,” Lonan says, holding up two freshly skinned rabbits.I don’t know when he had the time to hunt them — last I saw he was rubbing down the glittering scales of the swiftwyrms while offering them gentle words of encouragement and thanks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Makeshift chairs are assembled about the fire and our company settles in for a hearty and, thankfully, delicious campfire stew.Whatever the meat we bought was, it tastes vaguely pork adjacent and I’m not stupid or picky enough to complain about a mystery beast that doesn’t poison us or cause us to be violently ill. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At some point, Mikhail produces a mandolin from seemingly nowhere and proceeds to serenade one of Allene’s ladies, the one with dark hair and a perpetually unimpressed expression.She bears the whole endeavor with much the same attitude as a lighthouse weathering a particularly virulent storm.Afterwards, she says something that shocks Mikhail so greatly that he falls over backwards and his mandolin goes flying.I laugh.Loudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the hour draws later, the darkness grows thick around us, and I watch the expression of trepidation that steadily grows on Allene’s face as she finally realizes what her stubbornness has wrought.Serves her right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed, generous as he is, has offered to share a tent with me, so that Allene may have an entire stagecoach to herself, while her two ladies share the other.Allene’s ladies, who did not argue to take the shorter route and who have long had the grim, resigned look of women who have thrown in their lots with someone who doesn’t know when to cede their pride, sit in silence, the firelight casting harsh, flickering shadows upon their weary faces.For the first time in ages, I find myself feeling rather cheerful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I say in my most pleasant voice.She glances up towards me, bowl of soup in hand, her face uncharacteristically apprehensive.“If there is a knocking on your carriage door during the night, don’t answer.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She blinks slowly at me and frowns.“I am not so ill mannered as to bed your prince with such a lack of privacy,” she replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blanche.“Wh—no, I meant—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know you Nadarans can be somewhat sensitive to such things and I promise I will do my utmost not to offend your delicate sensibilities.”She leans forward and solemnly lays a hand atop one of mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That wasn’t what I—” I bluster.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon was trying to scare you,” Caed says tiredly.I can make out a faint red tinge to his face and I might have thought it no more than the fire’s glow if I had not been able to feel the twang of his embarrassment through our Bond.“There are tales of a gentle rapping at the door at night; those who answer do not return.”He pauses to eat some more soup and then take a sip from his water skin.“Despite his less than noble intentions, he does offer sound advice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our camp falls to silence after that and it is with a depressingly somber air that we all break off from the fire to sleep.I busy myself arranging our tent for optimal comfort as Caed finishes washing up for bed.Blankets laid out, pillows appropriately fluffed, coins and little metal trinkets and jewelry covertly scattered about the bedding, I curl up on my side and wait for my prince to join me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed enters several minutes later, backlit by the firelight as he unpins the door flap and steps inside.When he seals the canvas behind him, we are alone in darkness.He lays down on his back beside me and lets out a long breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you think she’ll be okay?” he asks softly.“I feel like I should have tried harder to convince her to go the other route, but…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scowl, knowing that even though he can’t see me, he can feel my annoyance.“I don’t know and I don’t care; I hope she has a horrible time.I hope the sounds of the forest keep her up all night and she can’t sleep because she’s afraid of being whisked away in the night by a mysterious creature.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed groans.“Feon…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn over so my back is facing him.“I never agreed to like her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” he says wearily.“But I wish you would give her a chance.It isn’t her fault that I’ve chosen to marry her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I say resentfully, “It is.She’s the one who asked you to marry her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t care, Caed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence sits between us, tense and uncomfortable.In some sick, awful way I take pleasure in knowing he must feel this unease as much as I do.Our Bond is thrumming with shame and guilt and pain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear him shifting in the blankets beside me for a moment and then feel his bitterness ebb, a slow stilling of the thread between us.“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” he says finally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I curl further in upon myself, until my knees are nearly to my chest and the curve of my back is pressed up against his side.I exhale, trying to will all the weight of my pain out with my breath.“I know,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the night folds in around our camp and I begin to drift off, I swear I can hear the distant tinkling of many tiny bells.Beside me, Caed’s breathing has yet to slow.My last thought before sleep takes me is that whatever is wearing those bells must be very large or very numerous.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p>                                                                                                    </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next day’s travel is quiet.Neither Caed nor Allene look particularly well rested.When I rise in the morning, Caed is already at the fire side, drinking a mug of strong, bitter coffee while Sieglinde chats companionably against his silence.We eat a short breakfast as Lonan and the attendants quickly take to tearing down camp.Allene emerges late from her makeshift bedroom, flanked on either side by her distinctly haggard looking ladies in waiting.Neither Allene nor her ladies say much and I get the impression that none of them slept particularly well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">About midday, our company has to halt and carefully ford a glittering stream that is not on our map and was definitely not here when we passed through on our way to Voswain.It’s a place of breathtaking beauty — bright water that sparkles in what sunlight manages to pierce through the canopy, the sounds of calling frogs thick in the air, the splashing of fish as they jump through the water, the calling of songbirds overhead.I hop down from the coach and approach the water, breathing in deeply the scent of fresh, running water and clean, wet earth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We break for an hour or so, giving me time to scope out the stream and for our ruby swiftwyrms to drink deep of its waters.I take a moment to focus on the Shiftweave, asking that its threads seal the split up the middle to fasten at the sides instead.The change is subtle, like a gentle touch, as the fabric quickly knits itself closed at the center and splits at the sides.I’ve experimented a few times since receiving the garment — it will shift so long as I am touching it and focusing on it, though more reluctantly if I am not wearing it, and it cannot expand or shrink much beyond its original size.It will not shift at all for Caed and will only do so for Allene if she takes several minutes to focus her will upon it.I remove my boots and trousers and roll up my underpants and wade into the river up to my mid-thighs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s fully spring in western Ogren, all flourishing greenery and cool breezes and wild blooms, all around us the proof that life is in the air and the ground.The stream is cold, almost too much so, and it takes me a minute to adjust before it becomes pleasant.Against my skin, the Shiftweave tunic flutters slightly, the tail end of the fabric floating languidly in the water.I step forward gingerly, feeling out the descent of the riverbed with my toes before moving, and am rewarded for my caution when my foot slides forward into open water, the river floor falling away sharply a good fifteen paces from the shore.I’m up to my chest in it now and could easily have been picked up by the current had I been careless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It gets deep,” I call back to the others, “Right here.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I catch a glimmer of something gold in the stream and look down and find that it is me — my skin gone all scaly below the water’s surface.I feel something slide against my ankle, and then many somethings about my feet and legs, and watch in quiet awe as a massive school of gold and bronze scaled fish rush down the river, parting against me with ease.All around me, I can feel the stream bringing life and vibrance to the forest and its creatures — as well as something else: magic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is another scent in the air, more than the pungent fragrance of spring and the intense sweetness of a flowering forest.I glance upstream and in the distance see a figure: a tall and slender beast, nearly like a deer, but with limbs made somehow longer and more delicate, its neck near serpentine in its length and grace, its hide a gleaming white.Two massive, bone white antlers grow from its brow, and atop them sit several small, golden birds.Moss grows down the ridge of its neck and its eyes are a deep, knowing black.I might have thought it a statue if not for those eyes.The stream burbles softly in my ear and my Shiftweave whispers across my skin.Slowly, I bow my head.When I look back up, the creature is gone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I return to the shore, I feel strangely rejuvenated.Our swiftwyrms seem to feel it too — I can see it in the proud gleam in their dark eyes and the eager stamping of metal hooves.Before I step out of the river, I catch sight of one of Allene’s ladies kneeling beside the stream to collect some of its water in a glass bottle.Aghast, I slap the flacon from her grasp, sending it into the river, where it is quickly carried downstream.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t!” I say sharply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The woman’s face colors and she straightens.“What is wrong with you?” she demands furiously, her unfortunate red hair frizzing in a halo around her face.“The waters are safe; clearly the <em>raschdrachs </em>are fine,” she says, gesturing towards our beasts and calling them by their Voswainian name.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That,” I say coldly, “is because they are already creatures of magic.As am I.”As I step from the water, my legs slowly shift back from golden scales to human skin, streaming droplets of water upon the soft grass.“As you had best remember.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I help our company find the shallowest place to cross the water, wading into the stream to urge our stalwart swiftwyrms across it.It takes a dreadfully long time and when we finally stop for the night in a tiny village on the edge of Lake Frieda, we are most of us filled with an exhaustion that runs bone deep.There’s no inn, but after a round of furious bartering, the inhabitants manage to scrounge up a few empty rooms scattered across their homes for Caed, Allene, and their attendants.After the weight of last night’s conversation with Caed, I decide to sleep outside with the guards.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The locals prepare a modest feast for us and we all join together at a single long table in the middle of their village to eat and drink and trade tales.We tell them about the stream we crossed earlier and the gleaming white stag-like creature that only I saw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah,” says the old and wizened man beside me.He has the deep calm of one who has lived long and well, his wide smile missing several teeth, his skin lined like tree bark.“About time the Riverlord was seen in these parts.”He pats a hand on my shoulder and passes me a filet of fish wrapped in pungent leaves.“We’ll pass word of this sighting to the young Earthspeaker.She’ll want to hear of it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a small clearing in the foliage over the communal dinner table and for the first time in what feels like ages, I am able to look up at the stars.When it comes time to ready ourselves for bed, I decide to eschew the tent in favor of sleeping under the night sky.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I awake a number of hours later to a cloying, oppressive silence and a sky of such a deep, velvety black I’m not sure I’ve opened my eyes until I glance about and see the singular lamp lit in the center of town.I lay back in the thick grass and try to find sleep again, but there’s a tension in my limbs, an unbearable itch I can’t ignore.I huff out a breath of frustration and a small plume of smoke billows from my mouth.My back feels sticky with sweat, the fabric of my tunic clinging uncomfortably to my over sensitive skin.I haven’t felt like this in years: tender and achey and hot all over.A bolt of white hot fire sparks in my chest, like anger, or passion, or desire, but stronger.Much stronger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I try to turn to my side and notice that the grass around my person has begun to smoke.I sit up hastily and draw into myself.I can feel it now: the deep, persistent burning within me, threatening to burst into flames.My skin is golden with scales.Even my pants and undergarments have begun to smolder.Only my Shiftweave seems unharmed, though as my body heats further I can feel the fabric moving, as if trying to keep itself as far from my bare skin as possible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I jump to my feet and hurriedly set out for Lake Frieda, only a few minutes’ walk away.Where I tread, blades of grass ignite beneath the naked soles of my feet, leaving a trail of smoldering footprints in my wake.The forest is an inky black and I am guided only by the scent of clean water and the low glow of the short-lived grass fires behind me.My pupils are blown wide, seeking any light source in the darkness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I see it finally:first, as only a small shard of silver in a field of impenetrable blackness, but as I continue to move towards it, more appear, little sparks of silver light that shift with my movement until I realize what I am seeing is the glowing surface of a moonlit lake obscured by the densely packed woods surrounding it.I push forward until I find myself at the edge of Lake Frieda, the tree line left behind me by several paces.The water’s surface is perfectly serene, a glowing mirror to the moon’s light, broken only by the jagged form of a circle of dark rock jutting from the lake’s center.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can feel the heat radiating from me, feel nipping at my heels the small grass fire I’ve started by standing in place for too long.My trousers and undergarments are heavily singed and beginning to fall apart, only my Shiftweave left unscathed.I shed my clothing quickly and jump into the icy lake.The water hisses around me as it hits my skin, steam billowing into the air above.I submerge myself completely and feel the water boil around me, its frigid temperature growing warm from my body.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was dreaming before I woke, I remember now.I can’t recall much: just the feeling of heat, the press of a body against mine, a tender voice filled with wonder, and a piercing, enduring sort of happiness that leaves me hollow at the loss of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When my head breaches the surface of the lake, I realize I am not alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before me is a woman: tall, naked, and gleaming like the moon above.Her long hair tumbles down her soft curves like a silver waterfall.She smiles at me with lips full of a secret promise. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She opens her mouth to say something, but the words are foreign.Seeing my confusion, she tries again, this time in Daenian:“Good evening, golden one.”There is a precision to her pronunciation that a human mouth should not be capable of.But then, I suppose she isn’t human.She drifts towards me and although she’s submerged up to her waist, she doesn’t cause a single ripple in the lake’s surface.“What has brought you to my lake?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Heat radiates from me like a leaving tide. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was feeling a bit hot.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My tongue feels thick in my mouth.Even drenched, I can feel myself sweating.I haven’t felt like this in a long time: consumed by heat, clumsy with the sheer force of wanting.I felt this often when I was younger: a momentary flare of desire as a serving girl leaned in close to whisper to me, her lips ghosting against my ear, the soft cushion of her breast pressed to my arm; the furious blaze of adrenaline and anger and lust as I shoved a young earl down into the mud for his disrespect towards my prince, and then held him there, pinned beneath me, until he begged for mercy; the first time Caed and I sparred with real blades and I managed to slice a clean cut across his chest and there was skin and blood and heavy breathing and the feeling of his blood on my hands, his warm skin against my fingers, as I sealed his wound shut and he was fine, really, and when my panic subsided it left only a burning desire in its wake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The echoes of my dream have left me feeling that same awkward, incapacitating heat, the inept lust of puberty.It’s fucking awful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The nymph smiles at me and draws nearer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could help.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stands two paces from me, her long white hair trailing behind her on the water’s surface.Looking up into her face, which feels at once foreign and familiar, I can see how soft and full her lips are and the silent promise held within them.Her moonlight hands move to cup my jaw, tilting my face up towards hers.As she does so, her hair shifts, baring her heavy, naked breasts.I swallow thickly.She lists her head to one side and looks deep into my eyes, the barest hint of a smile quirking the corners of her mouth upwards. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you like that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod emphatically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still smiling, she leans in and presses her lips to mine.They’re soft and cool like her hands and where we touch, steam hisses between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are so beautiful,” she breathes, her eyes filled with a profound wonder.Her mouth plunders mine with a steady, languid sort of hunger.I feel clumsy and desperate and so overheated.She laughs against my lips and slides her hands into my hair.As she leans into me, I feel the pressure of her breasts against my sternum, soft and yielding.I let out a low moan and she licks into my mouth with all the dedicated interest of one intent to thoroughly map uncharted territory.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My arms circle her and pull her tighter against me.She makes an approving sound and digs her fingers tightly into my hair and gives it a good yank.I gasp, head falling back, feeling distinctly wrong-footed and wholly unprepared for the rush of heat that brings.She attacks the bared expanse of my neck and I groan, my hands moving to grasp at her shoulders, her waist, her ass, pressing myself to her with a consuming urgency.I exhale through my nose and wisps of smoke furl from my nostrils.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of her hands presses down against my throat, opposite where her mouth rests, her breath gusting hotly over my skin.Her other hand trails across my shoulder, over my hip, and down, down, plunging into the cold water until her fingers grasp tightly around my rapidly swelling cock.I groan, hips bucking forward, and she laughs and begins to work me with the same sort of unflinching interest she showed my mouth.I feel the sting of sharp teeth at my throat and then the soft caress of her tongue as she soothes over the bruising skin.She twists her fingers around the head of my cock, pushing back the foreskin so she can thumb the slit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The hand at my throat tightens its grip, the pad of her thumb pressing into my pulse, the arc where thumb turns to forefinger pushing against the muscle of my neck.She is so much stronger than she looks and so much larger than I am.My pulse stutters against her grasp, my breath coming in raw and ragged.She croons into my ear and I can feel myself melting against her, flushed and yielding and much too turned on.Her other hand leaves off my cock to join the one at my neck, steadily pressing harder and harder until I’m gasping for breath, throat laboring against the constraint of her hands.I can feel the blood rushing in my skull, the tightness in my lungs, the instinctual desperation as I try in vain to draw even a single breath.My mouth falls open, spit dribbling down my bottom lip and on to my chin.I can’t remember the last time I was this hard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So beautiful,” she says, staring into my face with unwavering appreciation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can feel myself trembling in her grasp, my attention honed to focus on my singular need: the desperate urge to breathe.All the fight leaves me pathetically quickly and I go boneless against her, giving in to the encroaching haze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The moment when she releases me is rapture, a near holy experience.I gasp and choke and my lungs burn as they fill with air and I come so hard I can’t make sense of all the sensations enveloping me: the soft press of her flesh against me, the cold water of the lake, the slow breeze above, and the desperate rasping of my chest as my head swims, shocked and dizzy, eyes blurry with unshed tears.I lean my entire body weight into her, head pressed into the swell of her breasts, drinking in the smell of her, my body shaking with feeling.She holds me gently, rubbing soothing circles into my back as she whispers sweet words down over the crown of my skull.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hardly notice the glint of moonlight on my scales, which have come in all weird and patchy, some places scale and others, flesh.When my throat has stopped working furiously to inhale and my tremors have lessened, she leans down and kisses me again, almost chastely this time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not done with you yet,” she whispers, her eyes two wickedly beautiful slivers of moonlight.I can feel my throat growing hot as the natural magic of my body seeks to heal any damage done by her touch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She presses me backwards through the water until the lake grows too deep for my feet to find purchase and I’m submerged up to my neck.I tread water, feet pointed, toes desperately searching for ground.She takes me further still, til we’re at the center of the lake and she has me pushed up against the black rock island at its heart.She seems even taller than before, for though I have sunk deeper in the water, she has not, the surface still breaking around her waist, just as it did in the shallows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She steers me to a portion of the rock that is lower than the rest, low enough that she can lift me on to a ledge hewn into its surface.The night air is cold and sharp against my glistening, wet skin.She arranges me carefully upon the rock, like one might an art piece.She trails a hand lovingly down my throat to my sternum, smiling as she feels my breathing stutter in my chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Beautiful,” she breathes, her hand running over a patch of golden scales at my hip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She hasn’t even touched me, but already I am swelling to meet her again, just the promise of her attentions enough to rouse the heat within me.She brushes her knuckles against the underside of my cock and I let out a small, rattling breath, embarrassed by how utterly wrecked I already feel.Her impossibly long hair flows past her shoulders, down her back, and into the water behind her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Moving slowly, she straddles my waist, every movement deliberate, unhurried.I stare up at her, aware of the air in my lungs, the soft flutter of my breath against my lips.She looks me over languidly, her eyes half-lidded and greedy.Her hands move to my shoulders, pressing me down into the hard, black rock beneath me.I can see the glimmer of my golden scales reflected on her pale skin.She leans down, then, and kisses me slowly and deeply, guiding my mouth against hers.She drags her teeth along my lower lip, an unhurried, unstoppable force intent on taking me apart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her breasts press into my chest, full and deliciously soft.My hands sink into her ass and I pull her closer against me, groaning into her mouth as the length of my cock presses into the soft, wet folds of her skin.She pulls back and smiles down at me wolfishly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just beautiful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then she rises up, angling herself against me, one hand grasping my cock, pressing it down the length of her labia, lining the weeping head up to her clit.She holds me there, her other hand gripping my shoulder hard, and rolls her hips, letting out a pleased breath as we rub together, watching my face all the while.She leans forward, still rutting against me, one arm thrust under one of her tits to keep me pressed against her, and breathes into my ear, hot and wet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want to take you apart.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sound I make is truly pathetic, but she seems to enjoy it.She gives me a pleased laugh and then leans back again and rises up on her knees, this time lowering herself down to slowly engulf the length of me.She’s so ridiculously wet, I can feel the slickness of her inner thighs as she takes me to the hilt.She moans, low and open, her eyes intent on my face.My head rolls to one side, mouth falling open, already raw and over sensitive from my earlier orgasm, now overwhelmed by the tight heat clenched around me.I reach down and feel the place where we are joined: the smooth, wet heat of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She rests her open hands side by side on my chest and shifts against me, leaning in until her face is over mine, her white hair forming a curtain around us.The lines of her arms press her tits together and, fuck, they look amazing squished together like that, her big nipples pert and slightly walleyed.She clenches slowly around me and I moan.She captures the sound with her lips.And then she starts to move.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s slow, at first, a lazy rhythm of her rocking against me.My hands fall back to her ass and she makes an appreciative sound low in her throat.I can feel her breathing quicken as she starts to pick up the pace, her breath hot on my face.She leans back, hands moving to steady herself on my thighs, and she starts to ride me in earnest, her tits bouncing rhythmically above me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You feel so good,” she groans.“So good.”Her words are punctuated by the wet slap of her body against mine, the pressure as her nails dig into my thighs.I let out a low, strangled moan, my head thrust back, baring my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She surges forward, burying her face into my neck and inhaling deeply.The air is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of our labored breathing.Her teeth scrape against my throat and I shudder, remembering the feeling of my pulse stuttering as she throttled the breath from my lungs.My fingers sharpen into claws as they dig into the meat of her ass and she moans wild and open against my neck, her breasts pressed tightly to my chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand moves to the back of my head and she forms a fist in my hair and pulls.I arch under her, thrusting up as she slams down into me.She clenches tight around my cock and I can feel the tension mounting in my abdomen, feel my muscles tensing as the pleasure grips me.Without warning, she sinks her sharp teeth into the meat of my throat, piercing the flesh.I gasp and writhe beneath her.The scent of my blood is sharp and biting against the heavy musk of sex.She clenches around me again and my orgasm grips me, my cock spilling hot and desperate within her.I feel the moment she begins to spasm around me, her shoulders going tense, breath shuddering against the open wound in my neck, and I feel her climax rock through her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We lay together, pressed close and panting.She tongues my neck lazily, licking away the blood.When she rises, finally, her lips are red with it and she wears the languid smile of a predator.She leans forward and presses her lips to mine with all the slow surety of someone who has staked their claim and I can taste the coppery tang of my blood on her tongue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Payment,” she says, her voice raw and husky. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shudder, unable to look away from that red, red mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to come visit you some time,” she says, and I hear it in her voice again: that promise of dark, wondrous things.“If you’d like.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eyes wide, I nod dumbly, my mouth slack.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.”She presses one last, lingering kiss to my lips before she slides off me and slips silently back into the lake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a long breath and press the palm of my hand to the sore spot on my neck.The bleeding ceases and my skin slowly knits back together.I sit up and stare out across the lake for a long moment, its waters once again a perfectly serene reflection of the moon’s light.Feeling weak-kneed and wobbly, I lower myself back into the frigid water and make for the shore.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Nausea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a week traveling through the untamed wilds of Ogren, I have to admit that my vague notions of perilous excitement and daring exploration were, perhaps, a bit grand in comparison to my actual adventuring capabilities.For one thing, in my fantasies there was a good deal less drudgery and more, well, adventure.In the accounts I’ve read regarding such exploits, they never much described the tedium of setting up and breaking down a campsite day in and day out, or the discomfort of sharing cramped quarters in dingy inns with too few rooms and an abundance of grime, and they certainly did not deign to mention the horrors of <em>camping.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon, I can tell, is positively basking in my displeasure.I’m no stranger to travel — to the boredom that oft accompanies spending many days in a stagecoach — and am accustomed to needing to find ways to occupy myself on the road, but I have never before felt so consciously the confines of a vehicle.But how can I not when that brooding drake alternates between glowering at me and gloating at my discomfort?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He didn’t always treat me thusly.Once, I might have said we were friendly — or at least, I was as friendly with him as anyone other than Prince Caederyn can be.At any rate, there was certainly no ill will between us; to be frank, I suspect he did not think of my existence at all, though I had always been somewhat taken with his.All that, of course, changed with the announcement of my engagement to Prince Caederyn.I had not thought Feon would take it so hard — or, if he were so opposed to the notion, that Caederyn would have accepted it at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sometimes I worry that we’ll arrive in Nadara and on the evening of the wedding, Feon will burst into the proceedings and burn the whole thing down to ash and then I’ll have to make the whole horrid trip back home, unmarried and no wiser than when I left.Those two are so closely tied together and I am not fool enough to think Feon’s opinion of me holds no sway over Caederyn; and so I find myself frustrated and floundering for another’s approval in a way that leaves me feeling distinctly wrong-footed.I don’t normally need to <em>try</em> to get others to like me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We break our fast with the inhabitants of Sommerspring, the small town just off Lake Frieda — so small, in fact, it wasn’t originally even on Captain Elske’s map, but was penciled in later when mentioned to her by a fisherman on the Glut River some years prior.It seems strange to me that there is no larger municipality upon the lake’s banks, what with how Lake Freida forms the basis of the Glut, which then flows to join the Sennald River down the Nadaran border and then runs off into the Belaiza Sea.Surely it must be a very profitable position to control the lake, but as far as I can tell, there is only a small fishing village further downstream, just north of the border with Nadara, and then Helion, on the Nadaran side, a somewhat sizable city.I’m certain someone enterprising could easily capitalize upon a fortuitous position at the lake’s head.Water may flow downstream, but money often swims upstream.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I say as much to the village elder that morning, he just laughs at me with a mouth full of missing teeth and dismissively waves his bony, decrepit hand.“Control the lake!” he cackles, and slaps his knee, as if I’ve just told some great joke.A younger girl, perhaps around Dannica’s age, serves us each a bowl of morning oats that smells sweetly of honey.“You would think that, wouldn’t you, being a northerner as you are.”He shakes his head and gives me a pitying look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think perhaps I must be missing something,” I reply, simultaneously insulted and amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There is no <em>controlling</em> <em>the lake,” </em>he says, and takes a long drink from his cup.He smacks his lips loudly and shakes his head, my words a bad taste on his tongue.“We live here,” he gestures out widely over the long communal table at the center of the village, “By her grace.She has seen fit to give us the gift of her benevolence for many generations.I do not doubt that if one such as yourself came here with the intention of—”Here, he cracks up once more, falling into a minor fit of wild laughter, <em>“‘Controlling the lake,’”</em> he says again, and this time I am certain he is mocking me, “Well, they’d be met with more than they bargained for.”His eyes sparkle with a cryptic mirth that I find rather infuriating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The old man finishes his breakfast with surprising speed and stands, still shaking his head and chuckling to himself.I watch him leave and decide to add this, too, to my list of ways this journey has been not at all what I expected.The locals are always supposed to be amazed by the sophistication of the wayward explorer coming to them from more civilized parts; they’re supposed to be taken in by her cunning and bravery and the many conveniences of modernity and magic she brings with her; they aren’t supposed to poke fun at her for having, frankly, very reasonable and logical questions about the lack of economic growth in their area.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I look up to find Caederyn regarding me from across the table.“Don’t worry about it too much.They have different ways here and a different relationship with the land.Ogren is the last real bastion of the old ways.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pick at my porridge and frown, feeling rather embarrassed.“Yes, but I always thought…”I shrug and try my best not to sound like an impetuous child.“It’s just nothing like my books, is all.”Caederyn reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, his eyes gone all soft and tender.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My gaze flicks away from him, back to where the village elder has stopped, now, and is conversing with Feon.The old man is bowing his head reverently, looking almost awed.I watch as he takes Feon’s hands in his own and bends shakily to kiss them.Feon, for his part, looks like absolute hell.His short golden curls are a matted mess, near resembling a bird’s nest, with even a few leaves and blades of grass sticking out of ist to add to the similarity.He looks distinctly ruffled and exhausted in a way I’ve not seen him look before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you think is going on there?” I ask, brow furrowed.Caederyn catches my glance and turns to look back at Feon as well.Feon manages to finally shake off the old man, looking disgruntled and awkward, and approaches the table and sits heavily in the empty space next to Caederyn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re late,” Caederyn says, looking at his dragon curiously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That same young girl serves Feon a bowl of morning oats and I notice that his has got slices of fruit as well as a piece of honeycomb, which mine most certainly did not contain.I notice, too, that the girl’s hands shake when she proffers the bowl to Feon; when he takes it and their fingers brush, she goes all wide-eyed and worshipful.I glance across the table and see her emotion echoed upon the faces of the other villagers seated at our table.They whisper to each other, voices hushed, their eyes fixed on Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What exactly is going on?” I ask, frowning.“What did you <em>do?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s eyes snap to my face and his lips curl with displeasure.“Why is your first thought that I’ve <em>done</em> something?Clearly, they are just showing me the respect I’m owed.Unlike <em>you.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s definitely not that,” I reply dismissively, only taking mild satisfaction in Feon’s scowl.“They weren’t acting this way when we ate with them last night.”My eyes narrow and I study Feon closely.He sits there, having the distinctly disheveled look of someone who has recently taken a tumble — either literally or metaphorically.Despite this, his tunic looks absolutely untouched, almost as if it had been pressed just that morning, though I <em>know</em> we do not have an iron on hand, else my ladies and I would have made use of it all week.Under my scrutiny, I can see Feon’s freckled face begin to flush slightly.“No, clearly you’ve done <em>something…”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Just as I’m about to pry further, Captain Elske strides up behind me and claps her hands together.She’s an older woman, perhaps in her early- to mid-forties, with broad shoulders and a crop of short brown hair streaked through with silver, and an imposing, no bullshit sort of sternness that has even Feon sitting up straighter in his seat— not that it does much, short as he is.She is devastatingly hot — something I and my two ladies, Fidelity and Clemence, have discussed to exhaustion, Clemence oft bemoaning the captain’s stalwart lack of reaction any time she attempts flirtation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, everyone, the coaches are prepared and we are ready to set off.If we make good time, we should be able to push on to Helion by nightfall.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, there is a murmur of excitement amidst our crew.For all that the Nadarans are more accustomed to such rustic accommodations and are more equipped for this sort of travel, I can tell they are quite enthusiastic to return to the soil of their homeland.I think on that for a moment, and a small wave of homesickness nips at my heels.I’ve seen the way the foreign spouses of Voswainian nobles yearn for the lands of their births and never thought to find myself amongst their number, not ’til I decided upon Caederyn as my partner.As for my ladies, they look quite relieved to think they might finally see some decent accommodations for the first time in a week.Nadarans may often be somewhat unsophisticated, but at the very least they do not usually lack for the barest of creature comforts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we all get situated for the day’s ride, I pause just outside the stagecoach, Caederyn midway through handing me in, Feon waiting impatiently behind me.“Feon,” I say, thinking out loud.“I think I’d like to take another look at your tunic.”I turn towards him, eyeing the garment intently.“If you’d let me,” I add hastily, knowing what a horrible brat he is.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon regards me for a long moment, looking thoroughly unenthusiastic.I see his eyes flit over my shoulder and something must pass between him and the prince because after a moment Feon says, in a long-suffering sort of voice, <em>“Fine.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He steps back and I let Caederyn help me into the coach, where I take my seat opposite him and unlock my large wooden travel chest to start rifling through my books.When Feon returns, he’s wearing a different tunic, holding the Shiftweave bunched up in one hand.“Here,” he says grouchily, and shoves it into my hand before taking his seat next to Caederyn and crossing his arms over his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I say, with all the grace of a lifetime of etiquette classes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you looking for?” Caederyn asks curiously, as he peers over the lid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I had a thought last night,” I say, pulling several books out and setting them aside.Feon snorts and Caederyn shoots him a quelling look.“A thought that I had been going about this all wrong.After all, it’s not as if this tunic is made of regular materials, is it?It doesn’t seem to be, say, silk or cotton or some other fiber that has been imbued with magical properties, as one might normally do.Rather, after thinking on it a bit, I realized that Arcanist Ebner did say it was made <em>of</em> magic — not something, some material, that was then enchanted <em>with</em> magic.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally finding the book I’ve been looking for, I pull it out and hold it up proudly.It’s an old textbook, one I’ve had since my early days studying the arcane.“It was stupidly fundamental once I thought about it and realized I’d been going about the process completely wrong.”I look back up at Caederyn, pointedly refusing to look at Feon.I just know he’s got some sort of smug look on his face, but I don’t care; if I’ve been stupid, I’ll say it, and not be embarrassed.It’s not a flaw to admit one’s own mistakes, but in fact a testament to one’s character.Pity he can’t see that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I set the massive, old book in my lap — <em>Ogladelle’s Definitive Compendium of Profoundly Magical Essences (Fifth Edition, Revised)</em>, an absolutely fundamental book for any looking to seriously study the arcane.I open to the table of contents and then thumb through to the section on identifying the nature of magic made physical.It’s been quite some time since I’ve had to do something like this — normally, it’s a purely theoretical endeavor, something to be practiced with a tutor, at least in my case.Being of royal blood, I am not often given arcane items that have not already been fully vetted and then explained to me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In all honesty, Feon’s accepting of an item without completely understanding its nature speaks to me both of his ignorance on the subject as well as his rash nature, though I can’t imagine Arcanist Ebner knowingly sabotaging Voswain’s relations with Nadara by orchestrating his harm.She has long proven herself a dedicated and loyal ally of the crown — though definitely an eccentric one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend the next few hours reading, taking painstaking notes in my journal as our coach travels through the dense woods of Ogren.Through the tome’s methods and through the use of my revealing powders, I am able to discern that, indeed, this is an item purely woven of magic.I’d already surmised as much, but it’s good as a means of establishing a baseline.It is then a matter of hypothesis and trial: taking note of the many possible sources that could be the root of magic for this tunic, testing the weave’s reactions to my materials, and seeing if they align with anything referenced in the Compendium.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does that look more white or silver to you?” I ask Caederyn a couple hours later, gesturing to the small flame dancing over the end of my Impervious Tweezers, which are grasped around a tiny segment of Shiftweave thread.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Silver, I think,” he answers, watching intently.I nod and carefully place the flaming thread into a small crystal bowl.The flame splits and I take note of this as well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it burns out a surprisingly long time later, it leaves behind a tiny trace of silvery gray ash.I pull out my scryglass again and put it to my eye, extending it as far as it will go until I have a good, close view on the particulates of ash.They’re not gray, after all, but rather many subtle shades and hues all mixed together, all shimmering with a magic revealed to me through the scryglass’s enchantment.“Very interesting,” I say, and take note of it in my journal.I reference the text again, marking out a few possibilities in my notes and starring a couple others.I’ve long since ruled out all of the more beastly or fiendish sources for the Shiftweave’s magic and this, finally, points me in a definitive direction: whatever the root of this fabric’s power, it is distinctly fae in nature, though not one of the more powerful fae.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Careful not to disturb the ash, I take an enchanted crystal rod from my pocket and strike the side of the bowl one, two, three times, and close my eyes, muttering a few words memorized from the Compendium, and try to listen for the resonance of it.It comes in strong, much stronger than I’m expecting: a weave of two notes, like a cello accompanying a violin.I had said, before, that the weave and weft were two different sorts of threads doing two different things, but I hadn’t realized then how right I was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I set my tools aside and hold the cloth between both my hands, running the material through my fingers over and over again, the excitement of my discovery dissolving within me.I open my eyes and see Feon shrinking away, his hands pressed tight over his ears, a look of pain on his face.“Make it <em>stop,” </em>he hisses and I look at him wonderingly, realizing that he must still hear the reverberations that, for me, faded away near a full minute ago.I press my fingers against the outside of the crystal bowl, stilling the last of its vibrations, and Feon visibly relaxes, slumping back in his seat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed, beside him, looks entirely confused.“What is going on?” he asks, entirely unaware.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s… complicated.Magic has a… you know when you spoke about the tether between the two of you?”He nods slowly.Beside him, Feon looks up at me sharply.“Magic has a resonance, almost a music to it.If you’re learned enough, you can pick out a magical source from its tone, its rhythm, the feeling of it.I am not quite so sensitive to it yet, and so I need other tests to narrow down the options before I can get a good idea of what I’m dealing with.Feon…”I look over to the dragon, see him with his arms crossed, hands rubbing at his upper arms in a self-soothing motion.“He is naturally sensitive to these reverberations.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There were two of them,” Feon says quietly, looking away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What does it mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look from him, to Caederyn, and then back again.“I can’t completely confirm this, but I have… suspicions.To be fully confident in this I’d need to run several tests under more controlled conditions...”I stop, seeing the look on Feon’s face, and know that he can tell that I am stalling.“There is a creature, not often seen — or at the very least, not often knowingly seen.A type of fae, one known to prey on human infants.They steal them away in the dead of night and then assume the babe’s place, all to be cared for and coddled by human parents.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happens to the child, then?The real child?” Caederyn asks, brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sometimes it is killed, sometimes kept by other fae as a child or a servant.But after its taking, it is never again fully human…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re in that <em>thing,” </em>Feon spits, gesturing angrily towards the tunic.“Both of them.They’re both in there and it’s not just their blood, is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not think so, no,” I say sadly.“It’s not uncommon for the corpses of magical creatures to be cremated or melted or otherwise condensed for the distilling of their magical properties.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon makes a disgusted sound and Caederyn looks questioningly between us then.“So, then, it’s like how the arcanist took Feon’s blood, but…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not like that <em>at all,” </em>Feon barks out, face red.“How do you think she got the both of them, Caed?Not just the changeling — <em>both of them.</em>They were killed, that’s how.Purposefully hunted.One of them?That could be an accident, a stroke of luck in happening upon the body.But the both of them?They were singled out, one used to find the other, and then murdered.To make <em>this.”</em>He gestures towards the Shiftweave, revulsion and hatred writ in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare down at the tunic in my hands and think about how it required the death of a human child — or near human, at the very least — to create it and I feel sick.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate your whole fucking country,” Feon snarls.Not even bothering to rap on the wall and alert the captain, Feon flings open the coach door and jumps out.I watch out the rear window as he nimbly leaps up onto the second stagecoach and joins Sir Sieglinde in the driver’s box.She startles and then hastily makes room for him, though given the narrow space and the truly impressive size of her, it’s a tight squeeze.Caederyn sighs and leans over to close the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That went well,” I say wearily, and fold the tunic and set it gingerly to one side.I don’t much wish to touch it anymore.I begin to set my things to rights, putting away my tools and materials.I still as Caederyn reaches forward and places a hand on mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You didn’t know,” he says gently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.“No, but I shouldn’t have brought it up again.I only did so because I wanted to prove I could do it.I did this out of stupid pride and now look what’s happened!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You couldn’t have known.”He squeezes my hand gently.“But now that you do, you can write to Arcanist Ebner and forbid her from such practices.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You mean I can write to my <em>mothers</em> and ask <em>them</em> to forbid it of her.I don’t have the authority to create addendums to the Briar Laws and, to be honest with you, I doubt they do, either.”I let out a small laugh as Caederyn looks at me questioningly.“The nobility may be the hands of the Law, but the spirit of Voswain — the spirit is in the Law of magic, written by Ruzena the Briar Queen herself.And it has gone unchanged since it was first struck into the stones of the Ashalt Range.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn still looks uncertain.“My dear,” I say softly, and put my hands to either side of his sweet face.“Would you be able to challenge your Bond?It is as much your Law as the practice of magic is mine.It is writ into the core of your nation, in your very blood, and it is sometimes inconvenient, sometimes brutal and challenging and painful.But could you undo it when it is as much a part of you as your own flesh and blood?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shakes his head, finally, and sits back, face drawn.“No,” he says, his voice raw and rasping.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod, then, satisfied that I’ve made my point.Steeling my nerve, I pick up the Shiftweave tunic once more and place it carefully atop the pile of books in my trunk, which I then close and lock.I don’t think any of us will much want to look at it for a while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The time passes quietly after that.Feon doesn’t return and though I keep out several books in the vain hope that I’ll feel inclined towards further academic pursuits, I am, frankly, feeling too nauseated to further my reading today.I stare out the window, watching as we pass through the dense woods of Ogren.Through our travels, I have been rather surprisingly impressed by the cartwyrms’ ability to keep up a decent clip despite what passes for a “road” in these parts — nothing is paved, the path often not even denoted by cleared earth; we frequently travel via pathways that are no more than sections of forest more resolutely trampled than the rest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, we travel quickly enough, and by late afternoon we can see the trees begin to thin slightly as the Ashalt Range starts to close in on the east, sandwiching us between its peaks and the waters of the Glut, funneling us towards the northern end of Scoil Pass.After an hour or so, the trees finally split before us, and at last we see a break in the canopy, the sun shining down brightly upon us.Low cliffs rise to either side of us, creating a natural pathway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I open one of the coach windows and peek outside, awed by the natural beauty around us.High above, perhaps the equivalent of three stories up, the closest cliffs end, their plateaus covered in the same lush foliage as decorate all of Ogren.To either side of us, the black rocks of the cliffs are alive with greenery: grasses and bushes and climbing vines and the occasional tree clinging to the sheer cliffside with all the tenacity of its roots.Every now and then, a small waterfall tumbles down from the east, to form small pools below.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s astounding,” I breathe, eyes wide.I’ve seen natural beauty before, but never like this.The bleak northern lands of Voswain have their own beauty, but they are not particularly hospitable — at least, not without arcane intervention — and they are nothing like this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some movement out of the back window catches my eye and I watch curiously as a small sparrow lands neatly in Feon’s hair, another already perched upon his shoulder.Amused, I observe as several more join them shortly, landing on his shoulders, his legs, his head — anywhere they can reach.I laugh, low and disbelieving, as I watch one of the tiny birds drop an entire worm in Feon’s lap.Unbothered, he opens his mouth and he must say <em>something</em> to the birds, though I’ve no idea what, but they all look up at him intently and then when he proffers the worm to one of them, it takes it in its beak and hops off to alight on the top of the coach.Several others quickly take to the air to join it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this a common occurrence?” I ask, bewildered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm?”Caederyn twists in his seat to look out the back window.“Oh,” he says, his voice going soft.“Sometimes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It seems distinctly out of character for Feon,” I muse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, he’s got a soft spot for birds,” Caederyn replies fondly.“He says they’re like distant relatives, in human terms.Very distant relatives, the sort that you’re not exactly certain how they’re related to you, only that you know that they are.A real genre of idiots, he says, but it’s not their faults they’ve got no room in their skulls for brains.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He certainly has a way with words, doesn’t he,” I say, but I can’t help but smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn turns back to me and shrugs.“In a manner of speaking.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We lapse into silence.I shift to the corner of my seat and lean my head against the wall of the coach, <em>Mercurielle’s Magic Method </em>resting in my lap.I doubt I’ll do any more reading today, but it’s somewhat comforting just to feel the weight of it upon me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch idly as Caederyn resumes his whittling, a hobby I didn’t know he practiced until this journey.His hands move carefully, every cut of the short carving knife clean and practiced.Slowly, the form is revealed: a small rabbit, crouched forward on all fours, its ears laying down along its back, front paws nestled under its chin.Sitting like this, just the two of us, comfortable in the quiet, traveling through a world brimming with beauty, I can envision a future together, many long years spent in each other’s company, living and learning and ruling in tandem.Maybe one day even growing to love each other.I can feel myself smiling involuntarily and when Caederyn glances up and catches my gaze, his face is filled with a quiet affection.Being with him like this, a deep feeling of peace envelopes me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a feeling that doesn’t last.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the sun begins to dip below the cliffs to the west, hints of pink and purple tinging the distant sky, our caravan approaches a wide natural stone arch that bridges the cliff sides high above.The canyon is narrow here, perhaps four stagecoaches wide plus room between to pass, and the rock bridge looms over us, hints of its natural black stone peeking out through bits of thick vegetation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wonder how that came to be,” I muse, staring wonderingly at the arc of stone, wide enough for several caravans to span its breadth.“Maybe a river once ran this way, carving through the rock to form the pass, and then the arch…”I turn back to look at Caederyn as we pass into the bridge’s shadow and pause as I catch sight of movement behind him.It takes me a moment to realize that it’s the birds: all at once, they’ve taken flight, leaving Feon to flee into the open air.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What…” I begin curiously.I watch as Feon looks up sharply, his face lit by the last golden light of the day, his body passing into the arch’s shadow.Suddenly, he throws off the red cloak Sir Sieglinde lent him before standing and leaping up onto the roof of the second stagecoach.I catch a glint of gold on his skin and then he’s jumping again and I see him shift, clothes ripping apart at the seams as he grows, wings sprouting from his back and spreading wide.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Darkness takes us — a gloom much too deep and thick to be a normal shadow.The single magical light at the center of the ceiling sputters and goes out for a moment before coming back to life, weaker and yellower than before. And then I feel the impact as something large and heavy lands atop our coach, hear the crunch of it denting the roof in.The collision violently jostles our vehicle with its force, the coach’s suspension screaming in protest, wooden beams bending with the added weight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I only just barely manage to keep my seat and for a wild moment I think it’s Feon in his dragon form — and then I hear it howl: a chilling sound, like a dozen men crying out their last moments of despair before a violent death takes them, and I know whatever has dropped upon the carriage is something much worse than a temperamental dragon.I hear Feon, then, his voice a rumble that builds into a fierce growl, and a gout of flame shoots past on my right, a wave of of hot air rolling in through the open window.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sit, frozen, hands clenching my book, as Caederyn rises swiftly, dropping his whittling to the seat, and quickly shuts the window and latches the door locked.I stare at him, incredulous, wondering why the hell he’s locked us inside a cage in danger of imminent, crushing collapse.It’s only after a few long moments spread thin with fear that I realize that our coach has slowed to a stop.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Someone’s cut the leads,” Caederyn says, his face grim in the faint magical illumination of the coach’s single light. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With the darkness thick around us, it would almost be as if we were alone in the world were it not for the sounds: terrible shrieks and low roars, the rasp of teeth on scale, of rending flesh.Our coach shakes violently as the monster above us shifts; the wooden beams of our carriage groan and bend and I watch with mounting panic as the ceiling begins to cave inward, buckling under the creature’s weight.Between the beastly sounds, I hear the distant clash of metal striking metal, sharp against the rattling of my breath in my chest.Moving purposefully, Caederyn removes his sheath from where it hangs from a peg in the carriage side and pulls free a gleaming sword, simultaneously drawing a long dagger from the leather frog on his belt.“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, and moves to interpose himself between myself and the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A high, breathy laugh bubbles up from my lips, my brain struggling to comprehend how a <em>sword</em> will help us against the weight of a massive creature crushing us to death.“If we have to leave here, I need you to stay behind me,” he says, and I wonder how his voice can sound so steady when I can barely breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The body of our coach rocks violently forward and back and the suspension gives a shrill squeal of protest; I throw out an arm to brace myself against the wall, but it’s not enough and I slide forward off my seat to land hard on my knees on the floor, book still clutched in one arm.Caederyn manages to stay upright, arms up, his feet set firmly apart, knees bent, back curled forward.I hear the thud of two massive bodies colliding and realize the monster must have leapt to meet Feon in the air.The door to my left rattles violently and I cringe back, letting out a small shriek of fear, my heart racing.Another gout of flame surges past the window, but it’s on my right, opposite of the door, and I realize that no dragon will be coming to our immediate aid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll protect you,” Caederyn says, his voice only just audible over the sounds of monstrous fury and clashing steel.I hear something strange, then: the bright <em>ting ting ting</em> of metal hitting metal, but on a much smaller scale.A moment later, I watch as the door moves, a gap opening on the side closest to me, opposite the handle, thick, rough fingers grasping it at the edge.Caederyn tenses and the door twists in place before being lifted away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t even see the first of them.Before our assailant more than steps foot into the coach, Caederyn meets his blade with metal of his own and then steps close to thrust his dagger deep into the man’s gut.Caederyn twists his knife free and kicks the dying man away, his body falling backwards out the door into one of his allies.There’s a muffled grunt and a momentary scuffle as the corpse is shoved out of the way and then another man moves up to take his place, his sword whistling through the air with deadly speed.Caederyn brings his blade up to connect, throwing off the sword’s course, and quicker than I can follow, my prince has sheathed his dagger and grasped the aggressor’s wrist, pulling him close and thrusting the point of his sword into the man’s throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man dies with a wet gurgle and falls to the carriage floor.Caederyn kicks his body to the side, splattering the coach with blood, and moves to intercept another intruder.My betrothed fights the men off, one by one, forcing them into a bottleneck at the door of the carriage.There’s a momentary lull and I almost think us safe, before I hear a whistle and Caederyn stumbles back, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.He grunts and his hand falls open, his dagger clattering to the floor.They swarm us, then, one man rushing Caederyn, who only just manages to meet his blade, while a second assailant pushes past the both of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I cower against the wall, trying desperately to think of something, anything, that might help us.I’ve taken the lessons, I’ve studied spells that could aid in the event of an ambush: magic that could throw up a shield, that could conjure sorcerous blades, that could melt an opponent’s sword or at least heat it ’til it grew too painful to hold.I realize, then, that for all my theoretical skill, I have never once had to test my abilities in combat.All that knowledge, all that learning of mine is utterly useless, my brain left blank save for the shrieking panic that claws at my heart, blotting out all other thought and feeling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I try to shrink back into the corner, the man advances, the smell of his sweat thick in my throat.His sword flashes in the weak, flickering light and I scream and bring up my hands, <em>Mercurielle’s Magic Method</em> clutched between them.The blade sticks, buried deep into the tome’s pages, and I offer up silent thanks to whoever first thought to sandwich large books between wooden boards bound in leather.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man swears and releases his grip on the sword and instead draws out a long, serpentine dagger.He raises it towards me, his face in shadow, backlit by the faint yellow flickering of the carriage’s light.I cringe back, holding my book up as a shield, my eyes squeezing shut — but the blow I expect never comes.The man releases a choked wheeze and I open my eyes and watch as he stills above me, mouth gaping, flecks of spittle flying from his lips, his eyes gone wide.He sways for a moment and then topples forward, falling across me, the smell of sweat and grime and blood biting at my nose.I shriek, vibrating with fear, his weight heavy atop me, a dagger stuck deep in his back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stands over him, chest heaving, an arrow in his shoulder and a dagger plunged deep into his thigh.He swears softly, his his face set with pain and determination, his hair sticky with blood and sweat, sword still clutched in his good hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed!” I exclaim, tears in my eyes.“Oh, Caed…”I move, struggling to roll the dead man’s weight off me, and rise to kneel before my betrothed, hands moving to the dagger sunk into his thigh, sick at the sight of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t,” he says sharply, jaw clenched.“Leave it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A whoosh of air rushes through the open doorway and I watch, stunned, as the faint light of the carriage reflects off gilt scales and Feon, in all his draconic glory, lands with surprising grace next to our coach.His large, golden eyes are wide, pupils contracted to slits and darting frantically as he takes in the scene of carnage, small plumes of smoke rising from his nostrils.He’s breathing heavily and there is black blood spattered across his spiked brow and long, dangerous claws.He lurches forward suddenly, as if about to be sick, and then his body constricts, wings folding in upon themselves, tail shrinking.As his form condenses into the one I know, the last thing to change are his scales and he stands for a moment, shaped like a person but glowing and golden.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then the transformation is complete and he stands just outside the coach, small and human and very naked, a deep red tattoo marking his chest.He rushes into the carriage and shoves my hands aside from where they’re still raised towards the dagger in Caederyn’s leg.“Stand back,” he snarls, and I swear I see sparks jump from his lips.He rummages around the corpses and comes away with a dagger and a strip of leather, which he cut free from a dead man’s belt before cutting open the leg of Caed’s trousers.He hands the leather to Caederyn, who places it between his teeth, looking grim.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What—” I begin, halting suddenly as Feon kneels, still naked, and takes the dagger and plunges it into his own arm, cutting a long, clean line into his flesh.He grimaces and forms a fist and I watch, feeling sick, as his vivid red blood wells to the surface.He presses the wound to Caederyn’s leg, mingling their blood.Caederyn releases a tight breath and shuts his eyes.There’s a hissing sound and I smell the acrid scent of burning flesh and hair.Feon grasps the embedded dagger’s hilt firmly and pulls, the flat of the blade sliding back against the side of his bleeding arm, still pressed to Caederyn’s thigh, as it comes loose.Caederyn lets out a stifled cry and sways in place, uninjured shoulder hitting the side of the coach.He leans against it, chest heaving, face drawn and pale and drenched in sweat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go,” Feon barks to me, the inside of his arm pressed tightly up the length of Caederyn’s thigh.He pulls away and stands to help the prince sit.I watch wonderingly as the skin of Caederyn’s thigh, bright and pink and blotchy, begins to stitch itself back together.“Go,” Feon repeats, and aims a kick at my knee.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where?” I gasp, startled, my book finally falling from my hands, my fingers stiff from holding it so tightly and for so long.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Get alcohol, if you can.Or just stay out, if you can’t.We don’t need you here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I push myself to my feet as fast as I can, which isn’t very, and stumble out of the coach.When my foot hits the stair, I stagger and nearly fall.It’s completely dark out now, the sun set, but I find my way lit by a number of low, smoldering fires in the surrounding vegetation.Still, visibility is poor, and when I nearly trip over one of the corpses strewn outside the carriage’s open doorway, I feel a wave of sickness rise within me and I have to swallow my bile.From behind me, I hear Caederyn’s gagged cry of pain and am suddenly glad to be outside.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I follow the sounds of voices and find Captain Elske and Clemence in the open air just beyond where the bridge ends, standing over the massive corpse of a fallen beast, a torch in the captain’s hand, firelight flickering over their grim faces.The beast is a truly staggering size, even gaunt from starvation, its gaping jaws large enough to devour a man like a kabob.Its fur is matted and patchy, torn in places to reveal gray skin that hangs off its prominent ribs.It has two wide mouths, one sat atop the other, each lined with several rows of large, jagged teeth, blackened at the gums, the odor of decay hanging heavy around them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The monster is four-legged with a body like a snow leopard, with large, bat-like wings jutting from its shoulders, laying broken on the ground, torn to shreds by Feon’s claws.A nest of lank gray fur, thinning and matted with blood, circles its long, flat head and runs down the upper ridge of its back, where it meets a series of bony spikes protruding from the thing’s spine, which ends in three long, barbed tails.About the creature’s neck is massive iron collar, kept too tight and rubbing the beast’s hide raw.Guts spill from a gaping wound in its belly, blood and gore fouling up the beautiful land.It smells horrific and I find myself once again nearly sick.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened?” I ask, breathless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“An ambush,” the captain replies, gesturing around with her torch.Light flickers across the many scattered corpses, their blood dancing with the reflection of torchlight.I inhale sharply — a mistake.“They dropped down from above,” she continues, indicating the underside of the stone bridge behind us.At night, it looks like a cave.“Distracted us with the beast, cut the leads on the front coach…”She grits her teeth and I can see anger, hard and deep, in her features, the first real emotion I’ve ever seen her display.“Then Feon drew the monster out into the open air.”It makes sense, with the size of the beast — and Feon’s dragon form — I can’t imagine them to have much room to maneuver under the bridge.“And you?” she asks.“How fares the prince?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon is seeing to him,” I reply shakily.“He — he held them off, as best he could, but he took two wounds: one to the shoulder, one to the thigh.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske nods, her jaw relaxing slightly.“He’s strong.Don’t worry.Feon will set him straight, or die trying.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Captain!” calls a weary voice.Sir Sieglinde approaches us, four cartwyrms following behind her, reins in one hand, torch in the other.“They weren’t far off, but they were mighty spooked.Took a few minutes to calm them.We’ll need to take time to mend the traces before we can move.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something about the sight of Sir Sieglinde managing the cartwyrms seems odd to me.“Where is Sir Lonan?” I wonder aloud.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dead,” the captain says grimly.“As is Mikhail.”Mikhail — one of Caederyn’s attendants.I’ve not had much interaction with him personally but I know the prince regards him fondly.Grief seizes me.Beside Captain Elske, Clemence is still, her face empty with the echoes of shock.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon — Feon asked me to get alcohol,” I recall suddenly.“For Caederyn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske nods and unbuckles a flask from her belt and hands it to me.“We’ll find more if you need it.”I don’t realize I’m shaking until I hear the sloshing of the liquid within the waterskin.The captain eyes me for a moment and then says, “I should have insisted more strongly that we formed a larger entourage.I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head, feeling tears well up in my eyes.“It was m-my — my stubbornness,” I stammer, unaccustomed to the weight of guilt sitting heavy upon me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And it is my job to keep you safe,” she replies steadily, something like kindness glinting in the reflected firelight in her brown eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I couldn’t do anything,” I bite out, tears spilling hot down my cheeks.“I put us here and I couldn’t do a damn thing!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She lays a hand on my shoulder.“You did enough: you stayed alive.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here, take this, too,” Sieglinde says kindly, rummaging in a bag until she comes away with a bundle of clean cloth, which she hands to me.Her nose and eyes look red and I wonder if she was crying while retrieving the cartwyrms.“Bring it to Feon.Help him, if he’ll let you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod and wipe my eyes on the back of my sleeve and turn back to the coach, keeping my eyes determinedly raised so as to see as little of the carnage as possible.I think better of this plan when I trod into a puddle of blood, which startles me and sends me tumbling across the chest of a dead man, his eyes wide and vacant.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I return to the coach, I find Caederyn sitting slouched, head resting against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About time,” Feon grumbles, still very naked, and takes both the flask and the cloth from my hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He rips a strip of cloth free, pops the flask open and wets the fabric with it and then begins to gently mop away the blood from Caederyn’s shoulder.His wounds have healed remarkably.The skin over them is shiny and tender and pink, but it’s knitted itself back together, and Caederyn doesn’t seem to have lost too much blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I saw the beast,” I say, sitting heavily opposite Caederyn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm,” Feon replies, clearly not listening.Satisfied that Caederyn’s arrow wound is clean enough, he tears another, larger strip of cloth and binds his shoulder roughly.Then Feon sinks to his knees on the carriage floor, Caederyn’s legs bracketing his naked body on either side.Feon rips free a third rag, wets it, and begins to clean the blood from his prince’s thigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s tender, almost reverent, the way he tends to Caederyn, and I find myself entranced by the shifting of muscle and bone under the freckled skin of his back as he cares for his prince.For his part, Caederyn barely seems to notice, his head leaned to the side, eyes closed, breathing steady.I can tell he is conscious, but only barely.Feon cuts away Caederyn’s trouser leg and binds the wound; I’ve never before seen the dragon so gentle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stands slowly and turns to me and I feel my eyes drawn to the blood mark on his chest: two arcing lines, like wings, across his shoulders and chest, that meet in the center to twist together into an arrow head.Five lines emanate from the wings: the longest, in the center, beginning with a diamond shape where the two arcs cross over his sternum, then shooting up into a line that rises to the base of his throat, betwixt the clavicles; the other four lines are shorter, two to each side, all spreading from the wings’ arcs and rising over his pectorals.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tunic,” he demands, and reaches out his hand.Surprised, I give a start and then lean forward to unlock my trunk and fetch the Shiftweave.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you wouldn’t want…” I begin, fingers skirting over the soft fabric.Feon takes it and pulls it roughly over his head.When it settles upon him, it shifts to a soft, unblemished white, a low collar at the neck, the fabric falling halfway to his knees, solid in the front and split at the sides, revealing his golden, freckled thighs.He steals a belt off one of the dead men and loops it around his waist.Somehow, it sits well on him, as if the cloth welcomes his touch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t have to like it to use it,” Feon says, with more sense than I thought he had in him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Across from me, Caederyn finally opens his eyes and looks at us wearily.“I should speak to the captain,” he rasps.“Decide what to do now.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon bends and helps him up, placing Caederyn’s arm around his shoulder.The three of us walk together through the darkness, Caederyn limping and leaning heavily on Feon, me following behind.Someone has started a fire and what remains of our company is huddled around it, faces drawn with exhaustion and grief.For once, Fidelity and Clemence don’t even seem to mind sitting on the ground.The captain rises and helps Feon settle Caederyn to sitting; he winces but doesn’t complain.I settle in on one side of him and Feon sits at the other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where is Sir Lonan?” Caed asks, eyes searching the faces around the fire.“Mikhail?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske resumes her seat and shakes her head grimly.“Dead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn bows his head quietly, but I can see his throat working furiously with repressed emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll need to camp here for the night,” the captain says.“I don’t like it, but we don’t have a choice.There’s only a couple hours’ travel left before we reach the river, but even this close to the border, it’s not good to travel at night.Besides, we’ll need to take time in the morning to repair the leads as best we can to get the coach moving in the first place.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wordlessly, Jasper, the remaining of Caederyn’s attendants, hands me a ration of dried meat, and I watch as Sir Sieglinde passes one to Feon and Caederyn each.Feon still has the captain’s flask and drinks deeply from it before tearing into the meat with his teeth.I hadn’t seen it before, but in the firelight he looks wrung out, his face drawn and weary.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can we at least move away from the bodies?” I ask, embarrassed at how frail my voice sounds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We can move the bodies, most of them, but we should stay beneath the arch; it’s the closest thing we’ll get to shelter,” the captain answers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod dumbly, thinking about having to sleep in the blood-splattered stagecoach.“Is this… normal?” I choke out after a long silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” says Sir Sieglinde, her voice kind.“My lady, we do see battle on occasion, but this…”She spreads the large fingers of her hand out and gestures widely across the destruction around us.“This wasn’t just brigands who happened upon us at random and thought us easy prey.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This was planned.Deliberate,” Caederyn says, his voice dark and filled with a simmering anger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This knife was in Caed’s leg,” Feon says, holding it loosely, his elbows resting on his knees, back slouched.It’s a wicked thing, its blade drawn to a severe point, a needle of ill intent.The leather grip twists around the handle and ends in a pommel of dark stone.“It reeks of magic, as does the wound it begat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The captain looks up sharply at that.“What sort of magic?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not certain, but I don’t like it,” Feon answers.“I couldn’t find any trace of poison or curse or anything of the like in his wound, just the faintest residual magic from the blade’s touch…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll take it to the king,” Caederyn says.“And we’ll do a thorough search of the bodies at first light and see if we can’t find some means of identifying our assailants.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will obliterate them,” Feon spits, and gnashes his teeth.“I’ll hunt down whoever is responsible and rip them limb from limb.”He bites violently into a strip of dried meat and tears it with his teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Caederyn says softly.He lays a hand on one of Feon’s knees.“Thank you,” he says, so quietly I don’t think anyone else has heard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are a somber group that night.Captain Elske and Sir Sieglinde discuss logistics off to one side, voices hushed, while the rest of us sit in silence, passing around a couple flasks of strong drink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I think no one much likes the idea of sleeping in the carriages, for when the time to sleep arrives, we all settle around the fire, reluctant to leave both its light and the companionship of the group.Sir Sieglinde brings out what blankets and pillows we have and we arrange ourselves on the grass while she and Jasper take the first watch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity and Clemence join me and the three of us huddle close together, I curled on my side, my ladies at my front and back, all taking comfort in each other’s warmth, the proof that we are somehow still alive.“I’m sorry,” I breathe, guilt and sorrow mingled within me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity presses her soft cheek to the back of my neck and shakes her head.Her tears are warm and wet on my skin.“I’m just glad you’re alive, princess,” she whispers.“There was the beast and then a man broke into our coach… Mikhail tried to fend him off, but…”She draws a deep, shuddering breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence folds me into her arms, moving my head ’til it rests upon her breast.“The man looked about the carriage, examined all our faces, and then he just… he left.And I knew in my heart he was looking for you and that you were only feet away, just you and the prince, for I could see the gouts of flame outside — and I couldn’t do anything, not a <em>thing.</em>All the while I knew you might be dead or dying or kidnapped and I couldn’t so much as stand, the fear gripped me so.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hush,” I say, voice cracking.“I could never blame you for that.I wasn’t any better.While Caederyn defended me with sweat and blood and steel, I could do no more than watch dumbly as he near spent his life protecting mine.I couldn’t move, could hardly speak, couldn’t even think to form a spell.I had a book of spellwork in my hands and could use it as no more than a simple shield,” I bite out, shame a bitter taste on my tongue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My ladies hold me tight, their bodies warm against mine.Sour tears run across my face and my nose grows stuffy and uncomfortable.“I’ve never had an attempt on my life before,” I whisper.“Why now?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Neither of them have an answer for me.In the dark of the night we have no resolution, no explanation, only the comfort of each other and the promise that we will see a new day.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Scars, New and Old</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>as always you can find news of when spitfire betas go up for my patrons on my social media (mayakern @ twitter, tumblr, insta, pillowfort, etc.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The wounds in my shoulder and thigh throb, deep and aching.I’m lucky Feon found me when he did.Had he come later, it would be much worse — likely still healable, at least by his magic, but I doubt I would have been walking tonight, aided or otherwise.It almost feels right, this pain, and I can’t help but think I deserve it.After all, I’ve failed everyone.Allene should never have seen this sort of violence and I can tell it has her shaken.And Lonan and Mikhail… them, I have failed most of all.It eats at my insides like acid: a persistent, gnawing grief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lay on my back in the darkness, hands clasped over my chest, the flickering campfire off to my left, and try to force myself to sleep.It’s a laughable attempt.I can hardly even close my eyes and I find myself staring out into the bleak darkness, the underside of the bridge like a gaping cavern ready to swallow me whole, misery and all.Every time I try to rest my eyes, I see their faces: Lonan, slumped forward atop our coach, his longbow still clutched in his hands, arrows falling loose from his quiver, a knife plunged deep into his back; Mikhail, whose hands were never meant for battle, already lain out neatly on the grass, his eyes closed, dried blood caking his throat and chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Solir.”</em>Feon’s voice is quiet and filled with a deep weariness.He lays beside me on my right, just far enough that we are not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him as his body works to regenerate what it lost today — what he gave me freely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance over at Feon and find him ashen faced, even the fire’s red-orange flicker not enough to bring proper color back to his skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” I ask. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The smell of blood is heavy in the air, a cloying, metallic tang, laced with pungent undertones of decay, a foul combination.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m glad you’re still alive,” he says hoarsely, his throat working furiously against the emotion caught there.“After I killed the beast…”At his side, his hand curls into a tight fist.“I could smell your blood.”I unclasp my hands and move one of mine to cover his.Slowly, he forces his fist to unclench.“I knew you were alive, of course, because—” he chokes out and gestures with his free hand to the air between us.The Bond.“But I thought I’d nearly… I thought I might have been too late.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I thread my fingers with his.His skin is hot, almost unbearably so.I squeeze his hand gently.“But you weren’t,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I nearly was.”He shifts, then, to lay on his side, facing me, his eyes wet and over bright, the firelight glinting in his unshed tears, our hands still clasped.I turn my head towards him.Haltingly, as if afraid to hurt me, he brings up his free hand, fingertips grazing the side of my face.“You are so fragile,” he says.I can feel him trembling where we are joined — his left hand clasped in mind, the fingers of his right gentle against my cheek.“Sometimes I don’t know how I am to protect you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And yet, you always do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stares at me, as if by looking away he would relinquish me to death’s claim.The fire crackles and spits, loud in the heavy silence, the smell of smoke our only reprieve from the stench of the great beast’s corpse.In the distance, I can hear the quiet shifting of our swiftwyrms in the grass, likely too spooked from the day’s battle to sleep laying down for the night.There’s something else, too: the soft sounds of someone’s low, muffled weeping.It seems we are not the only ones unable to find sleep.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you remember the <em>Benengivt?</em>The Name Giving?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s brow furrows.“I try not to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will always remember.You have ever protected me as best you were able.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The fire’s light kisses Feon’s freckled face, gleaming in his golden curls, his bright eyes, the soft curve of his lips.It’s rare moments like these when Feon seems so soft, so small, so human.Sometimes I don’t know how to reconcile these glimpses of vulnerability with what I know of his true nature.No matter how he may look, no matter his love for me, he is still, at his heart, a dragon: a creature of rending claw and blazing fire.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shifts closer.“Please,” he breathes, his eyes beseeching. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can feel the soreness in his heart, his need plucking at the Bond between us.“Just for tonight.”Tentatively, he releases my hand and moves forward, edging in until he’s pressed up against my side, his head resting on my shoulder, my arm around him.He presses in tight along the length of my body, a line of heat against me, like laying just slightly too near the hearth.He curls in, tucking himself into me, his hand resting tenderly on my chest.He moves carefully, as if afraid he might break me, or afraid I might reject him.I suppose, considering how the past few weeks have passed, I can’t blame him for either fear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squeeze his shoulder with my hand, marveling at how still, after all these years and all the pain we’ve traded, he fits so easily along side me.As we settle in together, I feel him relax, feel his breathing ease in his chest, as the tension slowly drains from his body. Laying together like this, it’s like we’re children again.I remember many a night curled up together, him a warm, comforting presence beside me, keeping out the loneliness and the fear.Even long after he was allotted his own separate chambers, Feon would oft sneak into mine to sleep beside me.I never complained — not until we grew old enough that his presence in my bed became its own problem.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel it when sleep claims him, when his breathing grows deep, the hot air gusting out over the exposed skin of my neck.He has always given me everything.Even when we were children, he would push too far, give too much.So it was, too, on the eve of the <em>Benengivt.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s an old tradition, one not often practiced, but one so deeply important to Ogrench culture that it is one of the few events the entire country celebrates, representatives from every town and village making the dangerous trek to gather in Verlante and hear the name of the new Earthspeaker, a child touched by fate to keep the balance and the peace between the many peoples of Ogren, human or otherwise.It is a position held for life — the new Earthspeaker raised by and apprenticed to the current until they pass and the younger assumes the title.For whatever reason — whether the foreseen child is naturally closer to the old ways or whether the training itself blurs the borders of their humanity — the Earthspeakers are a long living sort and it will be several generations before another is born.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is likely because of this that peoples from all over join together to celebrate and bring gifts.I remember that Mother was too sick to travel that month, and so it was only the three of us — Father, Feon, and myself — who made the long journey across the continent to pay our respects.The king does not oft stray so far from Nadara.I’ve heard tale that before the Battle of Ash, he would frequently travel to remote locations on the back of his trusted and venerable dragon, Yuen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I was young, my nurses would tell me bedside tales of my father’s adventures, his courageous exploits far and wide, all of them in the company of his dragon.My father was fierce and fiery once, a fearless warrior, more daring than a dozen knights, tempered only by the wise companionship of his faithful dragon.Even now, songs are sung of the exploits of King Rynnwald’s youth: the capturing of the great cinderwulf, a massive, many-headed beast, its mangey coat dancing with sparks, its many mouths spitting blue flames; the slaying of ancient Stenfletch, a massive golem hewn from the southern reaches of the Ashalt Range; his parlay with the Belaiza sirens, their adoration for him since turning the waters between Nadara and Szerenfold sweet and gentle for any bearing our flag — of course, as a child, I learned a very sanitized version of that story.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is no longer so.Since the Battle of Ash and Yuen’s death, the king has not often seen fit to travel so widely nor behave so rashly, preferring to send representatives laden with gifts in his stead.For whatever reason, perhaps because it was such a rare occasion, the <em>Benengivt </em>was different.I was around thirteen years then, Feon a year my junior, and therefore much too young to make such a journey with passengers weighing him down, and so we traveled the common way, across the Belaiza Sea, landing in the western harbor of Szerenfold and traveling up river, past the great swamp, until we reached the capitol of Verlante.We do not ever travel through Laruze if we can help it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On the eve of the Name Giving, after many days of feasting, Feon and I heard a rumor.Father was off with the other people of note, foreign royals, dignitaries, ambassadors, respected elders and other such individuals, leaving us, the children, to form our own group, separate from theirs, though never too distant.Our presence there was meant to be edifying, a means to put to test all our training in etiquette and foreign relations and other such matters.Feon found it incredibly boring, of course, but I knew how vital it was: that the bonds I formed at this age could well color the politics of my adult years.At least, that’s what the king told us, many times, impressing upon me the importance of comporting myself with grace and fortitude.If I am being honest, I suspect Feon was not entirely listening.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene was there, as were Cassidy and Zerenity, her two older siblings.I remember there were quite a few children from across Ogren, some of them the grandchildren of respected elders, some the progeny of spiritual leaders, others just the children of normal folk, mixed in with the rest of us without care or comment.Szerenfold sent three of their own: two of blood, and Shraey, a distant cousin on my mother’s side.Laruze sent four progeny of their ruling council and, with them, Lysithea.She looked different then: scrawny and angry, her pointy nose too large for her small, weasel face, her black hair cropped short against her skull.She was unpolished then, one might even have called her scrappy, and she was filled with a rage that often exploded from within her, cowing the other children with her ire.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was Lysithea who first suggested we sneak out.Zoella, a tiny, spry thing and the daughter of a pair of Ogrench cobblers, was the one who told us of the rumor.That night, there was to be a great party in the woods, the likes of which we had never seen.She spoke of dangerous creatures made gentle, of beautiful beings of sun and moon and stars and sky, of a magnificent feast that blessed all who partook, of dancing and drinking and making merry long into the early hours of the morning.It sounded like a load of crock to me and I told her so.Why have a party in the woods when we were already feasting in Verlante?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, but it’s a different sort of party,” Zoella said, her pale eyes gleaming.“Not for us common folk, whether or not we are of blood.Tonight, the fae celebrate, and for once they do it not deep within the wilds, but within our reach!”She beamed at us all excitedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do you know of this?” Allene asked skeptically.<em>“I </em>haven’t heard a thing about it!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you aren’t from here, are you!” Zoella shot back, unafraid to act casually with royalty.“I heard my parents speaking of it this morning.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your parents make shoes for a living, what do they know?” demanded a short Ogrench boy with a snub nose and large, pointy teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Faeries <em>love</em> cobblers,” Zoella said brazenly.“We treat with them all the time.Sometimes they even bring Ma and Da gifts!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want to go,” Lysithea cut in, a hungry look in her dark eyes.“If it’s fake, then we see for ourselves, and never again believe this one’s tall tales.”She gestured dismissively to Zoella.“But if it’s true, and there really is a fae party tonight, I want to see it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Real or not, it sounds too dangerous,” I cautioned.“Even disregarding the possibility of fae or other such creatures, the woods are themselves treacherous.We’re <em>much</em> too young to make this journey alone, particularly without a guide.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, don’t be such a coward, Caederyn,” Lysithea had sneered.Even then she had a gift for getting under my skin.“Out of all of us, you’d be the most safe, what with your devoted beast at your beck and call.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon, who up until that point had not been paying particular attention, must have taken note of her tone and figured out that she was insulting one or both of us, for he snarled, then, his lip curling, smoke billowing from his nostrils. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut <em>up</em>, you pest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I know how to get us in safely,” interjected someone — a large, broad shouldered kid, tall enough to look like an adult, but with a baby face that betrayed their true age.When we all turned to face them, they flushed, a dull green tinge coloring their near gray skin.“I, err, I heard, before, when Elder Bertrice was staying at my family’s inn once — he was making ready to journey into the woods to treat with the fae.He’d prepared a mask to wear over his face and dabbed scent at his neck and wrists, to erm.To make him smell less… less delicious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Feon!” Zoella called out, her voice pitched up.“Do I smell <em>delicious?”</em> she asked, laughing, and batted her eyelashes at him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh, definitely not <em>you,”</em> he said, making a face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The others laughed, then.I did not.I didn’t know what they were thinking, but I for one was certain I did not wish to seek out creatures that would find me “delicious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s do that, then,” Lysithea said finally, breaking the silence.“I want to see this for myself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You mustn’t!” I said, my arms thrown wide, beseeching.“What will our parents say?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh, killjoy,” Lysithea groaned.“You don’t have to come with us, Caederyn.You’re perfectly welcome to stay behind and piss yourself like a little baby all on your lonesome while the <em>rest</em> of us have fun.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I am not particularly proud of what followed.All dignity forgotten, I launched myself at Lysithea, tumbling her to the floor.She brought an elbow up into my jaw, her dark eyes narrowed with loathing, and we grappled, each of us glaring at the other.All around us, furious argument broke out, our companions yelling and fighting.Lysithea got a hand in my hair and yanked it hard and I cried out.I had her pinned across the chest with one forearm, while my free hand curled into a fist and connected with her face.Then something yanked me back, a hand at the neck of my tunic, pulling me off her, another hand on Lysithea’s shoulder, forcing the two of us apart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You fucking brats,” Prince Cassidy said as he set me back on my feet.At seventeen, he was the eldest among us, and thoroughly unenthusiastic about being stuck with a bunch of children, essentially made to be our chaperone.“Listen, I won’t rat you out to your parents, but I draw the line at violence.Hands off each other or the next dipshit who starts a fight gets dunked in the Feegliss.”He glared around the room to make sure we all understood him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We quieted immediately, all of us, cowed by his authority.For my part, I felt a deep and mortifying shame. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” I muttered, not quite able to look at Lysithea, who was likely gloating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I still intend to go,” she said then, keeping her head held high, a bruise rising on her cheek. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Several others joined in their assent and swarmed around her to talk over strategies for sneaking out and for getting the necessary materials to make it safely into the party.I retreated, removing myself from the conversation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” Feon had said then, his golden eyes intent on the others, his hand resting lightly on my forearm.“I’d like to go.”His shoulders drooped and I could tell he was preparing for a scolding.I hesitated, disapproval ready on my lips, and glanced back towards our companions, who were all chattering excitedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Prince Cassidy,” I called across the room.“Will you be part of this excursion?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassidy looked back at me, appraising.After a moment, he seemed to settle on a decision.“I suppose I’d better,” he said, with the long-suffering tone of one resigned to a night of nannying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then we will join as well,” I replied. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, Feon’s eyes went wide and his posture straightened.“Really, Caed?” he asked excitedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really??” demanded Lysithea, looking surprised and not at all pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hands clasped behind my back, I shrugged uncomfortably.“Someone has to keep you all safe.”I didn’t know, then, how true those words were.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Being, for the most part, children of means, it did not take much doing for us to acquire the necessary items.By the time we all assembled by the city’s northern gate, evening had set and our numbers had swelled from nineteen to nearly thirty.Lysithea directed our party, handing out masks and passing around a small vial of spicy, pungent oil that smelled so strongly of cinnamon, cloves and pepper I could smell it from several paces away.When the bottle made its way to me, I dabbed some of the fragrance at my neck and wrists before passing it to Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t need it,” he said, shaking his head, and passed the glass to the next person.“I’m not human.”He leaned in close towards me, his nose a scant inch from the flesh of my neck, and then inhaled deeply.I remember even now the feeling of my face warming, my heart stuttering in my chest.Things hadn’t quite begun to change between us at that point, but still, I was growing and this was a sort of heat I was only recently becoming acquainted with.Looking satisfied, Feon had leaned back, young and completely oblivious, and then turned and sneezed three times in quick succession.“That’s good.You don’t smell at all like yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do I normally smell like, then?” I had asked curiously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon just shrugged.“You smell like you.It’s good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea butted in, shoving a simple mask into my hands.“Try not to wimp out halfway through,” she said snippily.She held out a mask for Feon and he refused.“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes.“Get eaten.See if I care.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon grinned at her then, his teeth gone all sharp and predatory.“I think I’ll be fine, thanks,” he replied, his smile widening at the way Lysithea had flinched back from him.With one last scowl in my direction, she turned on her heel and stomped off, no doubt to boss someone else around.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slid my mask on to my face and Feon moved behind me and took the fastening ribbons in hand, tying them at the base of my skull.I stood stiffly, much too conscious of how his breath blew hot at the nape of my neck.All around us, the others were preparing themselves, and soon we made a very strange sight: a group, some children and others near adults, all of us in simple, wooden masks and smelling strongly of cloves and spices, and Feon alone among us, bare-faced and glinting golden in the lamplight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even so near Verlante, the woods grew dense and dark.Several of us held lamps — Lysithea, Cassidy, and Zoella included — and the soft yellow light was barely enough to illuminate our path.Zoella headed our party, pointing out signs in the woods — strange configurations of mushrooms here and there, patches of flowers sprouting sporadically one after another, almost like a set of footprints, a warm breeze carrying within it the faint sound of distant laughter.It all set my hair to stand on end, goosebumps raising on my skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The others chattered companionably, some wielding sticks to help clear the brush, some whistling or laughing or jostling one another.I kept my hand on the blunted practice sword at my hip, knowing it would not do me much good in a real fight, but comforted by its presence all the same. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We were a disaster, the lot of us, two dozen or so children tromping about the woods, hoping to find faeries.Perhaps an hour or so in, I had begun to feel relieved, thinking that the rumor had been no more than just that, and that we might soon abandon our expedition and return home, empty handed but safe.I’d even started to relax, letting the others’ excitement infect me, laughing when Shraey got hold of a massive toad and thrust it out towards Allene, who shrieked and stumbled over a tree root and knocked into me.I smiled and helped set her to rights, my cheeks warm behind my mask.She was taller than I at that age and even then she was pretty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she said, resting a steadying hand on my shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“D-Don’t be,” I stammered, and immediately ran into Feon, who had stopped dead in his tracks, head up, turning this way and that, intent on something.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I smell something,” he had said, and quested about, sniffing animatedly.Our party slowed to a disorganized stop, all of us centered around Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is it?” Lysithea asked eagerly, pushing her way towards him, even her dislike for us not enough to dampen her enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A sort of dreamy look had come over Feon’s face, his cheeks flushing and his eyes growing bright.“It’s sweet,” he said absently.“Kind of floral, but… more.”He let out a gust of breath and moved, weaving lazily through the group until he was at the front of our party.I followed him, Lysithea close on my heel, and soon we got going again, this time trailing behind Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our progress was slow, at first, Feon frequently pausing to inhale deeply before continuing on or changing our course entirely.It was a halting pace and was, in truth, extremely frustrating.Lysithea had just begun to grumble bad naturedly when Feon suddenly stood straight and pointed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That way,” he breathed, and took off at a run.There was a moment where we stood frozen, all of us too shocked to do more than blink, and then we were off, running through the woods, following the beacon of the faint light glinting off Feon’s golden head.Cassidy tried in vain to reinstate some semblance of order, catching a couple kids and reeling them back and shouting at the others, but it was to no avail.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I could feel Feon through our Bond, nearly drunk on the sweetness in the air.And soon I could smell it too: a syrupy, thick aroma, like wild honey and vanilla and a thousand different flowers bursting into full bloom, the very distillation of life itself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The canopy above us opened suddenly and our band of half wild children stumbled out upon a wide clearing, stretching further across than I could see, small glowing lights dispersed about, the air rich with music, the border lined by tall trees.About the clearing were scattered a number of slender white trees, their branches bursting with pale flowers, petals raining down to form a lush, velvety carpet over the ground.The sky above was perfectly clear and dark, a deep and rich black, peppered with stars that shone bright and lovely in the heavens.In the center of the clearing sat a truly massive tree, so incredibly enormous that even now my mind balks at the thought of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have since tried to estimate its size and though my memory is not perfect, judging by the number of figures dancing about it, I imagine it must have been at least forty paces across, though the thought strikes me as ridiculous.Its massive trunk rose high above us, branches outstretched like waiting arms, dwarfing the forest around it, which previously I had thought to be quite tall.It was then that I realized that the night sky I’d noticed before was not truly sky, but instead a canopy that engulfed all of the heavens above us, so vast I could not see its end, the stars in actuality bright beams of moonlight showing through the foliage.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Humbled, I stepped forward, my shoulder brushing into Feon’s.He stood there, awed, his eyes bright with pure wonder.We watched as hundreds of glittering figures danced about the clearing, circling the central tree and joining hands, their voices raised in joy, music in their every step.The air was heady with it, an intense, pulsing jubilance that left me feeling dizzy and breathless, my blood singing thick in my ears.Beams of silver light fell to the earth in wide ribbons, and when a dancer passed through them, they shone with a fierce and wondrous brilliance, as if absorbing the moon’s radiance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unable to speak, I leaned, unsteady, into Feon.He looked back at me then, his face open and rapturous.Around us, our companions stirred one by one from their stupor and slowly began to move, stumbling, dreamlike, towards the tree and its dancers.Feon laughed, wild and free, and he turned from me to start off after the others, and unlike them his movements were graceful, light, suffused with a strange beauty.I’d never thought of him that way before, but I realized it then: Feon was beautiful.I reached out, trying to grab for him, but he slipped through my fingers with ease, laughter on his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sank to the ground, the soil soft and welcoming beneath my knees, blades of grass kissing the bare skin of my hands.I felt it, then: the rhythm of the forest, low and deep, a thrumming in the very earth itself.It filled me up, its joy and pride and goodness suffusing my very being.Tears pricked at my eyes, multiplying the glittering of the dancing figures and their moonlight streamers until my eyes were truly dazzled.I laughed, feeling something within me burst open and break loose.I stumbled to my feet and began to run, the music loud in my ears.The dancers welcomed me warmly, their soft hands brushing gently over me, all starlight and deep sky, their faces free of worry or fear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I felt bright all over, like the sun itself shone from my heart.Laughter flew from my lips, free and easy, my insides flooding with an intense joy.My next memories are vague and disjointed: bodies, tall and willowy, bestowing me with gifts, stringing flowers and jewels about my person; Allene giggling wildly from behind her mask as a great wolf the color of the night sky tossed her on to its back and ran about, her hands fisted in its fur; Shraey and several others laying in a massive pile of gold and jewels, laughter rising from their lips, bubbles floating overhead, refracting rainbow prisms across the clearing; Cassidy looking stunned at his good luck, a beautiful woman on either arm, each decked out in a staggering array of flowers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A tall woman with skin like stardust grabbed me by the hand and spun me about before reeling me back in and pressing a kiss to the cheek of my mask, the only point of discomfort on my entire body.The rest of me was loose and free, totally blissed out.The pressure of the wood on my face was a slowly mounting annoyance, as the fastening ribbon chafed my scalp and the skin on my face grew moist with sweat and humid from my warm breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard the chortle of familiar laughter and turned, watching as a group of fae bore Feon up into their arms, lifting him high overhead.The look of pure, exultant joy on his face made my breath catch in my chest.The hands lifting him sparkled prettily, holding him easily, as if he weighed nothing, but despite the grace of the fae, Feon was somehow more beautiful still, a lone ray of brilliant sunshine in a bed of moonlight, paling their light by comparison.Glowing lights floated overhead, like silver fireflies, drifting lazily about the clearing, a greater number of them concentrated about Feon than anywhere else.A number of small, glimmering birds settled in Feon’s hair, wreathing his golden head in a halo of feathers.At this, he laughed so happily that my heart ached with it, his joy spilling into our Bond, filling me to the brim.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stopped and slipped from the woman’s arms to just stand and stare, knowing that the giddiness within me was more than just an echo of Feon’s elation.I turned away, heart beating frantically in my chest, and my eyes moved to fix on the massive, central tree.I watched curiously as a line of laughing fae milled about before it, each waiting their turn for… something. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My interest piqued, I moved forward, weaving through the crowd until I found a better vantage, close enough to the tree that its trunk engulfed my entire field of vision.Lysithea drew up to the head of the line, her black mask slightly askew.I watched as a beautiful figure with long white hair and an ageless face bent down towards her and handed her a massive leaf so rich and green it nearly vibrated with life. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea cupped the leaf in her hands and pressed it forward, up against the tree’s trunk, where a shining silver spigot had been embedded into the center of a massive knot in its bark.The fae waved their hand and a stream of bright, gleaming liquid gushed forth, filling the waiting vessel up to the brim without spilling a single drop.Lysithea tipped her dark mask up so that she could drink deeply of the liquid.I watched, frozen, as the knot securing her mask’s fastening came undone, the ribbons sliding apart, and then her mask slipped from her face and fell with a soft thud to the ground.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The fae around her faltered, their movements halting, bodies going rigid, their attention fixed intently upon Lysithea’s face.Eyes closed, she drank deeply, completely unaware of the deep hunger in their gaze.A breeze stirred about us, shifting the canopy above, and a single, bright ray of moonlight shone down upon Lysithea, enveloping her completely.I watched as Lysithea’s eyes opened, the leaf falling from her lips, liquid half drunk and spilling to the grass below.She turned wonderingly, her eyes wide as her skin gleamed silver in the moonlight, completely oblivious to the danger around her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I yelled, a strangled sound that broke the deep silence of the night.It was only then that I realized that the music had stopped and all about us, the fae had gone completely still, all of them staring in towards the tree where Lysithea stood filled with a quiet wonderment.And as if my shout had shattered some sort of trance, chaos beset us.I felt it as Feon snapped to attention, following my gaze to see Lysithea, alone amongst the fae, their hands turned sharp and greedy as they grabbed at her, tearing into her clothes and skin.She screamed, piercing and shrill, and shrank back.With a low growl, Feon bounded forward, glittering birds leaping into the air as his form shifted, his soft skin turning to gleaming golden scales, wings tearing through his tunic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wild with fury, he flew forward, crossing into the moonbeam, his hide a blaze of sunlight so bright it was nearly blinding.He circled Lysithea, sheltering her as best he could and knocking the fae away from her, snapping at them, tearing with claw and fang at their grasping arms.I ran forward, breathing shallowly, pushing my way through the frozen crowd, and as Feon finally managed to break Lysithea free, I grasped her by the shoulders and shoved her on to the dragon’s back.Her dusky skin was ashen, her face drawn, jagged silver scars left where the fae had torn into her.Armed with naught but my blunt training sword, I brandished my weapon, placing Feon at my back, and faced down the encroaching fae, feeling the wrath of their gaze as a physical force, terror threatening to overwhelm me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard a loud snort and then Feon’s breath flared at the back of my neck, hot and moist, and his teeth tore through the nape of my tunic as he bit into the fabric and flipped his head up, tossing me over his neck.I landed with a grunt and scrabbled to find purchase, wrapping my arms around his neck and sandwiching Lysithea’s limp body between the two of us.I could feel Feon’s muscles shifting beneath me, feel him rearing back, and then a massive gout of flame spewed from his mouth, forcing the furious fae to retreat.He turned and fled, darting across the clearing, parting the surrounding crowd easily, not caring how many fae he crushed beneath him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we sped forward, I could see movement in the crowd: the members of our party, broken from their revelry, now turning to run, fear a powerful motivator.We reached the tree line and Feon leapt into the air.Too encumbered to fly, he launched himself into the canopy, bounding from tree top to tree top, birds streaming out from the branches, roused violently from their slumber.I clung on with all my mettle, Lysithea clutched tight to my body.I could feel her trembling in my arms and with every passing breath it felt as if she grew lighter.I watched in horror as her dusky skin began to turn silvery, a shard of wan moonlight beside me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When at last we broke free from the forest, Feon let out a guttural cry of relief and launched himself forward, wings outstretched, sailing over Verlante’s walls.We landed heavily in the city square, nearly tumbling into the small lake at Verlante’s heart, our arrival heralded by shouts of surprise and cries of fear.What happened next is now something of a blur in my mind.I remember Feon shifting beneath me, his form shrinking until he was human again, his naked body slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion.Someone grabbed us, then, and I don’t remember what I said, but it must have gotten the point across.People rushed all around us and soon we were surrounded on all sides by the shadowed faces of distressed adults.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Someone brought a blanket to lay Lysithea’s body upon and I remember the howl of dread that ripped itself from Noble Halwynn’s throat, a nearly inhuman sound, when they caught sight of their daughter’s unconscious body.She was fading quickly, her fingers nearly transparent as Noble Halwynn clutched her hand tightly in their own, fear and rage and love wrecking their body like a hurricane.I watched in horror as they kneeled there, clutching Lysithea’s ghostly body in their arms, calling her name over and over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Step aside,” hailed an ancient, weary voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Earthspeaker Ereshki had been roused.She kneeled beside Lysithea and gently pried her from Noble Halwynn’s trembling hands.The Earthspeaker was old, even then, her dark skin lined with wrinkles, her eyes deep set and tired, a cloud of white, kinky curls radiating from her head.Despite her station, she was dressed simply, a tattered robe thrown over one shoulder, her right breast bare and heavily scarred, the mantle of bark and moss and bone that rested on her shoulders the only indication that she was different from any other old woman.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Muttering to herself, Earthspeaker Ereshki drew a pouch from her belt and from it scattered what looked like an assortment of dried herbs across Lysithea.I watched as Lysithea’s trembling stilled and, slowly, her eyes opened.She was no more than a whisper then, her body almost entirely transparent, her face locked in an expression of dawning fear.Noble Halwynn gripped her hand tightly, their gaze steely, the panic from before subsiding into a sort of cold, helpless fury.The Earthspeaker drew out a small silver bell from one of her many pockets and rang it gently, twice, though the bell made no sound.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Someone will be here soon,” the Earthspeaker said, speaking to Lysithea.“When she arrives, you must tell her your name.Do not use your old name.You <em>must</em> choose a new one.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea’s body was trembling again and I realized after a moment that it wasn’t her — she had grown to be such a wisp that Noble Halwynn’s shuddering grip, their gloved hands locked tightly around one of her own, was enough to shake her entire body. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you understand?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea stared up unblinkingly at the old woman, her eyes hazy and not entirely present.After a long moment, she nodded, the only movement she’d managed since leaving the forest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know how long we waited there by the lake, only that at some point my father joined us, his face drawn and grim, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder as he stood behind me.I struggled to stand straight, born down by the weight of my guilt.Feon stood beside me, barefooted and clearly exhausted.Someone had thought to fetch him a robe, which he had wrapped tightly about himself.The robe must have been an adult’s, for the fabric engulfed him entirely, cloth pooling on the ground at his feet, his arms swimming in the wide, too-long sleeves.He glanced up at me, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and then looked back to Lysithea.After a moment, I felt the brush of fabric and then he wrapped his hand around mine, his sleeve engulfing both our forearms.He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, as if I was the one who needed consoling.Perhaps I was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The moon rose high above us, her baleful face shining down on the silent, waiting crowd.Behind Lysithea, the lake gleamed, and I remember noticing that the moon’s reflection in its waters seemed oddly large, the glowing disk growing to stretch near the entirety of the lake’s surface.It was then that I saw her: a young woman, her skin white and glowing, her long hair trailing along the ground behind her.I don’t remember seeing her approach, don’t recall her parting the crowd to draw near, but there she was, bright and beautiful and terrifying and clothed only in a shift of pale flowers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stood before Lysithea, her hair pooling around her bare feet, and where she stood, flowers burst forth from the ground.“What is your name, little one?” she asked, her voice gentle and yet somehow still horrible.I shuddered and a moment later felt my father’s hand squeeze my shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea blinked back at the woman.She parted her lips, tried to speak, then hesitated.The hand not clutched by Noble Halwynn rose to her throat and she stayed like that, unmoving, for so long I was afraid that she was gone for good.Little as I liked her, I had never wanted her dead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then, at last, she spoke: “Lysithea.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her voice was small, no more than a breath, but it carried and we felt it, all of us, as a gust of warm air radiated from her small body, stirring dust from the ground and forcing the entire crowd to take a step back.Whatever Lysithea’s name was before that moment, I no longer remember it, for in that instance it was wiped clean from all our minds and she was named anew.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watched as Lysithea’s body grew more solid, color flooding her cheeks and hands as she came back to us, returning to her health: that is, all except her hair and eyes, which remained a shining silver-white.Noble Halwynn pulled her in close, their head falling to her shoulder, trembling with silent emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The moonlight woman turned from Lysithea then to face the Earthspeaker.“What have you brought as payment?” she asked, her pale eyes gleaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Earthspeaker Ereshki had sighed, then, and stood and dusted off her torn and patched pants.She glanced down at Noble Halwynn and then looked out towards the rest of us.“Have any of you somewhat to trade?” she asked, her voice a rasp.“Who bears the burden of this bargain?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The crowd is silent, then, not a one of us stirring.I remember the pain that bloomed within me as my father’s grip tightened, fingers digging into my shoulder.I didn’t need to look back to know the look on his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We will take responsibility,” said King Rynnwald, his voice grim in the way that an ocean is wet: it’s a true statement, but it doesn’t begin to describe the depths contained beneath the surface.“As highest born among the group, my son should have known better and should have been able to lead his peers on a better path.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">While we had waited for the moonlight woman, a number of our ragged party of wayward children had stumbled into the townsquare, short of breath and filled with a deep, lingering panic, and either too foolish or too scared to attempt to sneak away silently.Prince Cassidy was not amongst those who joined us and I do not think my father knew he had been there; to be honest, had he known, I doubt it would have altered his decision.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Noble Halwynn looked back at us and to this day, I will never forget the look that passed over their scarred face as they set eyes upon my father.The word hatred does not even begin to describe it.It chilled me that night and even now I do not like to think upon it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very well,” replied the Earthspeaker. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I felt within me a rising resentment.I had tried to stop the excursion, had tried to reason with the others.It wasn’t fair to lay the burden of Lysithea’s pain upon me when I’d been the only one <em>not</em> chomping at the bit to throw myself at the mercy of a murderous party of fae.I’d tried to behave responsibly and it hadn’t mattered and now here I was, taking the blame.Anger flashed through me, white and hot, and I felt Feon stiffen beside me and knew that he could feel it through our Bond. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Earthspeaker considered me for a long moment before her eyes slid to the side, to where Feon was clutching my hand in his own, his other arm wrapped tightly around mine, clinging to me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, you,” she said, and gestured for Feon to join her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon glanced back up at me, unmoving, his eyes wide.I glanced back to the Earthspeaker and saw the moonlight woman standing silently beside her, her face filled with a deep and longing hunger that was not entirely concealed by her beauty.I shivered and glanced back to Feon, who was trying to put on a brave face and failing miserably. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was to take the blame for the night’s tragedy, but it was Feon who would bear the price for my actions.He had saved us all and now he was going to suffer for everyone’s foolishness.My anger left me in a sudden deluge of deep, damning shame.Feon looked at me questioningly, his golden eyes wide.Finally, I nodded towards him and then relaxed my fingers, releasing his hand from my grip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stepped forward haltingly, doing his best to stand tall despite the fear I could feel trembling through our Bond.He stumbled, tripped over the length of his robe, and had to gather the fabric in his hands to lift it high enough so that his steps would be unencumbered.When he came to stand before the Earthspeaker, she smiled at him, the expression somewhat softening the deep lines in her wisened old face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are a special one,” she said kindly, and drew back his sleeve to take one of his hands in both of hers.“Rare.Sought after.All manner of people will wish to take of you.And because you are precious, you can give up little where others would have to sacrifice much.Would you be willing to give up something small so that your friend might live happy and free?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon glanced back at me and our eyes locked.I stared back at him and saw the fear in his eyes — and the willingness.Something passed between us in that long moment, something that changed us forever.Perhaps it was inevitable.I didn’t know what it was then, only that I was struck dumb by the unfairness of it all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you willing to do this, Feon?” I asked, my voice cracking.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you want me to?” he answered, as if those two things were one and the same.Something inside me broke then, just a little, though at the time I didn’t know what.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I felt the unyielding grip of my father’s hand on my tender shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I… I would like to take responsibility for my part in what happened,” I stammered, voice shaking.“But you shouldn’t have to pay the price for me to do so.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a unity between Feon and I then, like two strings twined tightly about one another, strengthening each other, and I felt the fear within Feon subside, to be replaced by a sort of deep serenity.I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and prepared myself to take on whatever burden the Earthspeaker might ask of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Feon turned from me then and nodded to the old woman.“What do you need of me?” he asked, his voice bright and unwavering.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Earthspeaker smiled again.“Give me your hand, child.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon obliged, rolling the massive sleeve of his robe up to his elbow.I watched with horror as the old woman drew out a gleaming dagger.I surged forward, opening my mouth to protest, but my father’s grip on my shoulder remained tight, anchoring me in place.The blade flashed in the moonlight and the woman sliced a small, clean cut in Feon’s golden skin.I watched as he winced, but remained strong, his posture dignified, shoulders set. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blood, bright and red, rose up to spill from the wound, and something sparkled in the moonlight woman’s eyes.She took Feon’s hand in her own and raised his wrist to her mouth and drank of his blood.My heartbeat stuttered in my chest.She held him there for several long minutes, drinking her fill.When finally finished, she drew back, a wide, satisfied smile on her face, her lips painted red with blood.She released Feon and instead brought her hand up to touch one of his cheeks.He wavered in place, eyes not quite focusing on her face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will see you again,” she said, her voice soft, and yet it sang through my very bones.“I know it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon, for his part, just looked rather dazed.As she turned away from him, I rushed forward, my father finally releasing me from his grip.I pulled Feon to me and buried my head in his shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I rasped, throat tight.“I’m so sorry.”He leaned into me and just stayed there, flushed and relaxed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know how long we stood like that, only that when we parted the moonlight woman was gone and Noble Halwynn had Lysithea on their back, her arms wound tightly around their neck.They stood there, stony, my father mere paces before them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Majesty,” Noble Halwynn said stiffly, their jaw clenched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Noble Halwynn,” my father returned, his voice cold.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The two stared each other down, neither willing to concede any ground, Noble Halwynn both unable to blame my father for their daughter’s state and unwilling to thank him for offering the bargain to fix it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am glad you daughter is well again,” my father said finally, nearly succeeding at sounding diplomatic.I saw Halwynn’s jaw tense, their old, angry burn scars drawing taut across their face.Then they simply nodded and left.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come, Caederyn,” my father said, turning.“Let us get to sleep.We will speak of this in the morning.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He strode away, not waiting for me to follow.I moved numbly after him, Feon’s arm thrown over my shoulder, the weight I felt in my heart much heavier than that of his body leaning into mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I remember, too, that a fever took him that night.His brow wreathed in sweat, his body burned as he clung to me, having crawled out of his own bed to join me in mine.And here he is tonight, clinging to me still, his body radiating a bright heat.I sigh, wondering why I’ve let old memories invade my brain, knowing I’ve allowed my thoughts to run wild much too late in the night.We’ll need to be up early in the morning.I shift on the blanket, pressing my free hand over my weary eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At my side, Feon stirs slightly.“Caed...?” he mumbles, voice all soft and groggy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, and raise my hand to stroke his hair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He murmurs something too slurred for me to make out and then presses closer against me, shifting until his head rests in the crook of my neck.He presses a small, chaste kiss to my skin and then settles down against me, going all pliant and boneless.I let out a long, shuddering breath, and pray I am able to sleep before day breaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’re up at dawn the next day.The morning sunlight is weak, the sky a pale, anemic gray.The scent of spring is thick in the air, sweet and pungent, but it is unable to entirely mask the rolling stench of spoiling flesh.We all huddle around the last sputtering embers of our blackened campfire and share a silent breakfast.I eat my allotted ration of dried meat and bread and taste nothing, the food like soot in my mouth.Everyone looks exhausted, drawn out, and I don’t think any of our number slept particularly well last night. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even Feon, the heartiest amongst us, is not looking great.He sits slumped, his golden eyes glassy and over-bright.Sitting several hand spans from him, I can still feel the heat emanating from his body, cutting through the cool morning breeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No one speaks much.Together, we set about the grim task of readying ourselves for travel as best we are able.Clemence and Fidelity begin patching the swiftwyrms’ leads, their faces set with an amount of nerve I had not realized they possessed.Jasper cleans our coaches with a grim determination, wiping them down with cloths soaked first in water and then alcohol.It reeks, the scent of it sharp and biting, but at least it eats through the rank musk of spilled blood. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I limp about our camp, shrugging off Feon’s attempts to support me, and try to help as best I can.My wounds ache and itch and it takes a feat of will to stop myself from scratching at them.At the very least, I am able to find the hinge pins that fell into the grass earlier and hand them to Sir Sieglinde so that she may affix the carriage door back in place.I can tell that Captain Elske does not approve of the way I am pushing myself, can see the tension in her jaw when she sees me wince as I get down on my hands and knees to find the metal pins, but I can’t help it.I know that, being the prince, it is not my duty to ready our company for travel — I should be sitting back, letting others do the work — but I feel so deeply and profoundly useless and so wracked by guilt that I can’t stop it.At this point, my remaining retinue must be used to seeing this behavior from me, but I think Allene must find it surprising, judging by the look on her face when I rise to standing, the hinge pins in my hand, the knees of my trousers stained by grass and soil.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At some point, Feon rouses from his stupor and comes over to take me away from the bridge so that we may wash up together.He helps me strip down, his hands radiating heat as he gently helps me out of my tunic, careful of the tenderness in my shoulder.We wipe ourselves down with wet rags and divest ourselves as best we can of the previous day’s grime. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon removes my bandages and sponges down my back.My leg aches in a deeply satisfying way, a painful reminder of the responsibility I bare to keep these people safe.I wouldn’t say I enjoy the pain, but there is something gratifying about serving some form of punishment for my failures.I know none of my company will ever feel comfortable meting out justice upon me and so it feels right that fate sees fit to do it instead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s warm fingers run over the new, pink skin on my shoulder, checking it over carefully.My wounds are healing well enough, though the skin is tight and tender.He re-bandages my thigh and shoulder and then helps me into a fresh set of clothing.I grimace and grit my teeth when I have to put the arm of my injured shoulder through its sleeve.Neither of us say a single word the entire time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we rejoin our camp, nearly all the preparations for our departure are complete.The swiftwyrms stand idly in formation, their leads patched well enough to get us through the few remaining hours before we reach Helion and can replace their kit anew.I find Captain Elske standing over the colossal body of the great beast, and see it clearly for the first time, its ghastly face still and empty in the wan sunlight, gray-purple tongues spilling from each of its two open jaws.I notice that despite the abundance of its readily available meat, its guts already spilled to the ground, no insects buzz around it.The only bugs I see near it lay silent and still upon the carcass itself, another death count to add to our own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was already emaciated when it attacked us,” the captain says, indicating the beast’s jutting ribs.“Whoever our assailants were, they had it in captivity for some time.There’s chafing on its hide where the iron collar sits, and you can see similar chafing where there must have once been manacles.”She gestures forward towards the creature’s long, bony legs, rubbed raw and matted with crusted black blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is it?” I ask, brow furrowed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was probably great, once, this beast.Now its gaunt body lays collapsed upon the ground, long welts from the bite of a lash scarring its side.Feon stands silent beside me, his eyes narrowed, weak and feverish but for all intents and purposes unharmed.I shudder to think how the fight might have gone had the great beast been hale and strong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene joins us then, her dark eyes somber, and we stand quietly together, all of us doing our best not to breathe too deeply, as she leafs through a large book bound in what looks like the gnarled skin of an alligator.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s some variety of manticore, I think,” she says, nose wrinkled, the corners of her mouth drawn in a frown.She holds her book out and points to a series of illustrations that do, indeed, somewhat resemble the creature Feon slew.It looks so much smaller as a mere drawing on a page.The reality of it before us, even dead and no longer an imminent threat, is staggering.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it is time to leave, Allene, Clemence, Fidelity and I all assemble in the first carriage, which bears the lingering scent of alcohol.After checking over the coach’s interior and attempting to make us as comfortable as possible, Jasper joins Captain Elske in the driver’s box.The second coach, helmed by Sieglinde and Feon, carries a different cargo: the bodies of our fallen companions, Lonan and Mikhail, wrapped carefully in the cloths of two of our tents.None of us had much liked the idea of riding in a carriage with their lifeless corpses, but neither did we have any desire to leave them behind.We will take them back home with us and give them the final rest they deserve.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We depart, then.The captain maneuvers our carriage around the massive corpse of the fallen beast and we set off.When finally our path takes a slight turn and the stone arch passes from our view, the tension in the coach dissipates slightly.Allene sits opposite me, her dark eyes set determinedly out the window.Clemence sits beside her, resting a pale hand on one of Allene’s own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity is seated beside me and as the silence stretches between us, she takes out a wooden hoop, a swath of fabric stretched tight within it, and resumes her embroidery.Her hands moving clumsily with the needle and thread as the carriage’s movement jostles her and at one point she stabs the needle’s point right through the fabric and into her thumb.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dadgummit!” she swears quietly and sucks her thumb into her mouth.Despite this, she does clever work, her hands bringing to life a very artistically rendered bowl of soup.Why she is embroidering soup, I haven’t the faintest idea, but it is pleasing nonetheless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wonder, absently, where my whittling has gotten to and then wonder what it says about me and my life that I have apparently grown so used to attempts on my life that I find myself not much more than bored — bored and grieving — in the aftermath.I decide that it doesn’t much matter, for there’s no use contemplating living a life other than my own, and leave my seat to poke about the coach interior.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you looking for?” Allene asks curiously.She is shaken, I know.I can see it in the way her eyes flit about, like frightened prey caught at the knife’s point.I hate knowing that I did this to her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My whittling,” I say, frowning.I know I dropped it when the attack began.Perhaps Jasper found it when he was cleaning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” she says, and rummages around in one of her skirt pockets.“Jasper gave it to me earlier; he said you’d be wanting it.”She holds out the small wooden rabbit I’d nearly completed yesterday, as well as my carving knife, her hand trembling slightly as she grasps its handle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I say quietly, and take them from her, sad that my hobby has caused her yet more distress.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Time stretches laboriously, our trip to the Glut feeling as if it takes much longer than it actually does.I busy myself with my whittling.By the time I am finished with the rabbit and the sun is creeping down from its zenith, I know we are finally nearing the river, for the western wall of Scoil Pass has begun to drop away and the ground beneath us has begun to slope upwards.Our swiftwyrms toil on, pulling us tirelessly uphill.When our course levels with the now shallow swell of the western cliff, the trees have thinned and we soon find a rough path marked loosely with gravel, the thick grasses of the forest giving way to low shrubbery and scrubby vegetation.We crest the slope and there, glittering in the distance, is the Glut. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a whoop from outside, probably Sir Sieglinde, and then the rest of us join in a cheer, our spirits finally raised by our first sight of home.Allene and her ladies sit quietly, but they, too, seem relieved to finally be leaving Ogren.We slow, then, mindful to maintain control of our speed as the swiftwyrms take us downhill.Our path cuts into the slope’s side, rock once again rising around us as we descend towards the river.Some twenty feet above the water’s bank, the road levels, the gravel underfoot turning to beaten red clay.We come to a wide, paved rock landing that funnels into a long bridge of red stone, with a tower jutting up from its midpoint and another rising at the far end, on the Nadaran side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The metal of our swiftwyrms’ hooves ring out against the stone of the bridge, and despite yesterday’s travels and the subsequent grief, I feel a lightness rise in my heart.We pause briefly at the first tower and are waved on almost immediately.As we pass through, I hear the welcoming bellow of the tower’s massive heralding horn.Not a minute later, the sound is echoed from somewhere before us in the sprawling city of Helion, distant trumpets taking up the call as the city’s gates are laid open before us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first time in weeks, I feel as if I can relax, at least somewhat.We are home in Nadara at last.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ash</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t get to see much of Helion before we are rushed down the cobblestone streets, the percussive <em>clang clang clang</em> of the cartwyrms’ metal hooves beating out the rhythm of our flight.I gaze out the window, watching as the stunned faces of Nadaran civilians pass behind us.We must make quite the sight: two once magnificent golden coaches, one moderately crushed, its roof gone concave, its finely carved decorations smashed or broken off, gilt paint scraped away in some places, dark stains in others; the second coach is better off but still not unscathed by our recent altercation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Helion is a city set in a gentle bowl in the land, the outermost buildings cut into the sides of its rolling, red hills.I don’t catch more than a glimpse of those, though.Mostly, I just see building after building, a blur of near identical white edifices bedecked with red tiled roofs, most only one or two stories high, all so tightly packed together that I do not see Anneal Palace until we are almost upon it.We burst from a narrow road out into a wide, arcing street, at the center of which is a broad plaza, a large square of neatly manicured greenery paved in by lines of smart red bricks, and in the middle of it all, a massive fountain.I don’t get a good enough look at it to see what it’s in the shape of, as we’re immediately ferried past the tall iron gate to our left, which opens just long enough for us to enter.A row of smartly dressed guards stationed at the gate salute stoically as we pass.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frankly, Anneal Palace is more of a manor than a palace.It’s beautiful, to be certain, an elegant structure of pink and white stone, but it’s surprisingly small and reaches not much higher than the rest of the skyline.I catch myself feeling disappointed and have to remind myself that not every royal structure has to be immensely impressive and, at the very least, this is not to be my new home.The sun dips low in the horizon, casting its orange glow across the sky, turning the city golden with its light.And before me, the palace is alight with a rosy radiance as its stone soaks in the last of the sun’s rays and I decide that, perhaps, size isn’t everything after all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Caederyn asks.He’s smiling at me, all quiet and gentle, and I wonder how long he’s been watching me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I reply.“I’d seen drawings when I read about it, but…”My words trail off.Pen and ink can only do so much.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn laughs at that.“Of course you’ve read about it.I really shouldn’t be surprised.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske steers our coach expertly down a narrow brick pathway that curves around the palace and behind, to a private entrance at the back.Caederyn helps me down from the carriage and Jasper hurries ahead of us to see to our accommodations.I know they are expecting us and so our rooms are likely ready, or nearly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well, I do like to be informed,” I reply.“I didn’t jump into this arrangement completely blind, you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn smiles and proffers his arm to me.“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jasper returns shortly along with several of the palace servants and they lead us to our respective chambers to get washed up and prepared for dinner.I linger for a moment at my door after Caederyn is lead further down the hallway, past my rooms, and watch as Feon follows a few steps behind him, silent, unquestioned, as if he is assumed to ever be in Caederyn’s shadow, as if his place there is natural.And it is, I supposed, for despite the tension I’ve seen between them, they are bound together by tradition and magic and love.All that, I can see clearly.Feon pauses and his golden eyes flick back towards me.He holds my gaze for a moment and then, with a small sneer, he looks away and disappears down the corridor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess?” calls Fidelity, already in our rooms and seeing to the preparations within.“Are you coming?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I say, and hasten inside.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s absolutely marvelous to have a proper bath after near two full weeks of travel.I’d taken baths in the Ogrench inns that had them to offer, of course, but oft they had not much more than a low wash basin with unreliably lukewarm water and harsh, caky soaps .A <em>proper</em> bath is all together different and something I feel I much deserve, particularly after the terror of yesterday’s ambush.I luxuriate in the first truly hot water I’ve had access to in days, and in the gentle, fragrant soaps provided for us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are in a large, circular room, the deep free standing tub at its center and a large drain below that.To one side of the tub is a length of thick red cord which, when pulled, lowers a metal channel that streams steaming hot water into one of the buckets waiting below, which are then poured into the tub.It’s a very interesting system, one I’ll have to remember to ask about later, as it seems much more mechanical than magical.In Voswain, we’ve multiple methods for fulfilling our bathing needs: on the more mundane side, there are charmed items that can heat or clean water once it is provided, but I’ve also partook of communal baths whose waters were summoned directly from hot springs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No one in my books ever spoke of how truly disgusting a day’s travel through uncivilized territory can make one feel, or of how that discomfort compounds over the course of multiple days, or of the absolutely vile practices one must endure without access to a proper lavatory.It’s not as if it’s something I ever had cause to wonder about before our journey.The look of pure and evil glee on Feon’s face when he told me where I was to relieve myself our first night camping…Well, Caederyn at least had the good grace to look sufficiently mortified for me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity begins to deftly wash my hair (no small task) while Clemence organizes our things, setting aside dresses for each of us for dinner, making a pile of garments that will need washing, and in general being her usual, fussy self.Several palace attendants see to my other needs: soaping and scrubbing my skin, filing my nails, combing through my long, thick hair, and readying fresh, hot basins of water to replace the bath water as it dirties and cools.I think I go through several tubs’ worth of water before I finally feel really and truly clean, all the muck and grime of travel sufficiently scrubbed from my skin.I only linger in the bath for a few extra minutes once I am properly clean — a true sacrifice and one I make with great regret, but I know I am not the only one who has been desperate for a proper wash these past few days. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise from the bath, water streaming in clear rivulets from my naked body, and step down from the elegant porcelain tub to the cool tile floor beneath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I survey myself in the massive, floor length mirror set against the wall.The light in here is low and tinged a delicate pink.It’s very flattering and almost romantic, the way it softly kisses the skin.One of the palace’s attendants swathes me in a massive, fluffy white towel, her eyes downcast. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Behind me, I watch in the mirror as Fidelity and Clemence begin stripping off their travel clothes, each helping the other with her laces, and apparently spooking one of the servants in the process.The poor girl hastily steps back and averts her eyes, a bright flush in her cheeks.It’s a little funny, really.Considering her duties tonight, shouldn’t she be accustomed to seeing naked bodies?Perhaps she was only unprepared for the speed of our undressing or the lack of care for our own nudity: Nadaran modesty at its most absurd.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I am patted dry, wrapped in a soft robe, and then richly scented oils are rubbed into my skin and, all the while, the servant girls keep their eyes downcast.I find it all rather ridiculous.Before long, my ladies and I are cleaned and dried and dressed and all of us feel much better for it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Clemence, you’ve done wonderfully,” I say, smiling, as I survey our reflections critically in the bath’s large mirror.She’s coordinated our dresses tonight, putting me in an airy gray and white gown, with layers of sheer silver tulle over the skirt and beautifully delicate white florets decorating the bodice and cascading down the skirt; Fidelity and Clemence stand at my sides in their own simpler navy dresses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence beams at me.“We do make a striking trio,” she replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There comes a rapping at our door and Fidelity hastens to answer it.I hadn’t realized just how much I missed proper clothing — none of that dreadful travel attire — until I nearly tear up at the rustling sound her skirts make as she moves.What a positively silly thing to feel sentimental about!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If Her Highness is ready, Prince Caederyn would very much like to accompany her to dinner with the Duchess of Helion.”It’s Jasper.He stands just shy of the doorway, looking very smart in his crisp cream tunic and trousers, with a red sash about his waist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course!” I exclaim, and breeze through the door, Clemence close on my heel.Fidelity, long since used to my mannerisms, steps deftly out of my way, but Jasper looks slightly startled before he recovers and moves aside so that Caederyn may approach and proffer his arm to me.I take it, smiling, and we start walking, with Jasper ahead to lead the way, Captain Elske and Sir Sieglinde falling in at the tail of our group.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good evening, Princess,” he says.He’s dressed simply, but well: a long, slim fitted blue-black velvet coat that ends just above the knee, with a collar and cuffs embellished with beaded gold embroidery and a front closure joined with a single line of golden buttons, with a red handkerchief folded in the pocket and red threading at the button holes.He looks positively delicious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like all this,” I say, raising my free right hand to gesture toward his ensemble.I decide to leave my hand resting on his upper arm, above where my left arm rests upon his, instead of letting it fall.“You look beautiful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His long face colors charmingly.“I feel as if I should be the one telling you that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I already know I’m beautiful,” I reply playfully.“But somehow I think you don’t hear it often enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s laugh is cut short by a protracted groan from behind us.“I’m going to vomit,” Feon says in the long suffering tone of the third wheel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps you shouldn’t join us for dinner if you’re feeling ill,” I reply, feigning concern, without turning to look back at him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sun above, I wish,” Feon grumbles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” Caederyn says, sounding exasperated.“Please at least try for some measure of decorum.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not like Em <em>cares,” </em>Feon replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would rather us not try her patience tonight.”Caederyn’s voice is quiet but firm and brokers no argument.Feon must hear it too, for he hushes immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are taken not to a banquet hall but rather to a smaller, more private chamber.Jasper ushers us into the dimly lit room, at the center of which sits a circular table with a deep red tablecloth and places set for just seven.There are candles lit on the table and a number of wall sconces flicker with small flames, but otherwise the room is left dark.It has an undeniably intimate feeling to it and I wonder, suddenly, if I’ve vastly miscalculated the mood of tonight’s gathering. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a woman seated at the seat furthest from the door and when Caederyn and I enter the chamber together, she rises fluidly from her chair and bows her head low to the prince.He inclines his head in return and leads me around the table so that we are beside her.She’s a handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, broad shouldered and fat and beautiful with impeccable posture, her straight brown hair chopped severely at the shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn extends an arm towards the woman and introduces us.“Princess Allene, this is the Duchess Emira Murrine of Helion, my dear cousin.”Caederyn’s guards move to stand at ease by the wall.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The duchess bows her head to me and I give a shallow curtsey in return.She’s wearing an odd and beautiful gown of deepest black.It’s fitted tight across her bosom and waist and hugs her hips before flaring out at the knees, midnight fabric pooling at her feet.The bodice is cut straight at the neckline and from it bursts an elegant swath of rich black feathers that wraps her left arm in a winglike sleeve and then cascades over her shoulder and down into a train on the floor.With her prominent nose and straight brows that nearly meet at the center, she resembles some sort of strange, somber bird.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Welcome to my home, Your Highness,” she says.Her voice is deep and rich.She takes both my hands in her own and offers me a small smile.“I hope you will someday grow to call me sister, as I regard Caederyn as a brother.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes are a deep amber, beautiful against her terra-cotta skin, and her hands are warm around mine.She has a certain gravitas to her, similar Caederyn’s gentle introspection, but more grounded, somehow, and therefore more impressive, and I find myself instantly taken with her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Lady Murrine.I look forward to a lasting friendship between us.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods again and releases my hand and Caederyn helps me to sit, placing the duchess to his left and me to his right.After a moment of silent fuming, Feon takes the other seat beside me.Our attendants hesitate and then Clemence, Fidelity, and Jasper take the remaining seats and I understand two things simultaneously: first, that the duchess has, with nary a mention, arranged for Caederyn and I to share a table with our companions despite the drastic disparity in our ranks; and second, that she has included none of her own people at the dinner, therefore allowing us one night of privacy before we must parade ourselves before the Nadaran people.Both realizations make me grow all more fond towards her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A servant places a small bowl of scented water before me and I watch as Caederyn dips his fingers into his own bowl and begins to rinse his hands.I follow suit and when finished, the servant returns to take the bowl and replace it with a small, steaming wet towel, which I use to wipe my hands.I wonder if this custom began because Nadara is so much drier than the rest of the continent.I’ve yet to see it, but I’ve read that in places the sand underfoot can blow into a frenzy that leaves one miserable and caked in grime.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” begins the duchess, “Judging by the state of your coaches, I imagine you’ve had something of an eventful journey.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A serving girl circles the table, stopping at each place to pour our wine, never spilling a drop, while another server sets before each of us a small plate of spinach and lentil salad with sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and herbs and a sort of creamy, tangy dressing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn takes a sip of wine.“Traveling through the Ogrench wilds is never a simple matter, but this sojourn proved to be particularly eventful.”His eyes are downcast and I can see the tension in his jaw, in his rigid, unforgiving posture.“We lost two of our own.I want to see their bodies put to proper rest before we leave.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Caed…” she says, her voice brimming with remorse.The duchess lays down her fork and places a hand on one of Caederyn’s own.“I am so sorry for your loss.I will ensure that they are properly treated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to be there,” he replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course.”The duchess beckons to a nearby servant.He leans in close and she whispers something to him before sending him off.“What else do you need?” she asks, her eyes intent on Caederyn’s face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“New coaches, tack for the swiftwyrms, and we’ll need to refresh our provisions.Perhaps additional protection as well.”Caederyn’s lips draw into a grim line and I can see him deliberating over something.To my right, Feon is eating quietly, his eyes fixed on his plate.I’d almost think he was ignoring the conversation at his left if he didn’t look so tense.“Emira?” Caederyn begins, his voice tight.His face is set, like he’s finally come to a decision.“This stays between us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Murrine eyes Caederyn intently and then nods and swiftly gestures towards the attending servants.“Give us privacy.No one enters this room until I send someone to indicate otherwise.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The servants scatter instantly, disappearing like the last wisps of smoke after a candle is blown out.The duchess leans towards Caederyn, her hands placed one over the other at the edge of the table, her eyes fixed on her cousin’s face.She remains silent, giving Caederyn the time he needs to gather his words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We were ambushed,” he says at last.The air in the dining chamber is tense, all of us waiting on Caederyn’s words.“We’re not certain yet by whom,” he continues, “But it seemed deliberate.Planned.”Caederyn’s hand is fisted tightly around the handle of his fork.“I’d like to send a courier ahead of us to the king and proceed with our travels as planned.It will seem strange if we forgo the festivities planned for our progression and I think the damage to our coaches can be explained away as a consequence of the dangers of traveling through such perilous territory.”He quiets then, his jaw clenching as exhaustion and fury battle to overtake his usual composure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My eyes flick from Caederyn and on to Clemence and Fidelity, before returning to look back at the the prince. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think,” I say, speaking with the deliberation of a woman who is picking her words carefully, “Perhaps it would be prudent to disseminate that narrative.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence falls over our group as they consider my suggestion.The duchess looks at me thoughtfully, her mouth drawn into a pensive line.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Highness, if I might speak…” Fidelity pipes up, her sweet face set with a determination I’ve not seen in her before.Caederyn nods towards her.She takes a deep breath and gathers herself.“We can do that.If we’ve time to socialize before we set out again, Clemence and I, well, we have spent much time in court.Perhaps not this court, but, still.We know how to gossip with intent.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The duchess considers Fidelity with open interest.“Yes, I think that would be best.It would be rather strange if this news came from me and, well, my dear cousin here does not exactly have a reputation for being loose lipped.”When she speaks about Caederyn, there is real affection in her voice.“I’ll have something arranged for tomorrow while we see your fallen given their proper rest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace…” Clemence begins.The duchess indicates for her to continue.“I would like to be there, if possible, and I think Fidelity would too.To give our thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Murrine nods at that.“After, then.”She turns back to Caederyn.“How many guards will you need for your travels?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t want to raise too many suspicions,” the prince replies, his brow furrowed.“But I feel a public procession is an opportune moment to see us come to harm and we’re meant to have three in the coming days — here, Deneli, and then Soliss.I don’t wish to put the people who come to celebrate our arrival at risk, but I am reluctant call off the parades.It would not look well upon us.”He turns, then, his eyes seeking out the captain of his guard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske stands at ease against the wall behind him, a formidable presence that makes me feel safer just by her proximity.Her expression is grim, the harsh lines of her face thrown into prominence by the flickering candlelight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We could add a reasonable number of guards, provided they are trustworthy and don’t ask questions, and I think it would not look odd if we had escorts on wyrmback on either end of our party.”She ticks off her fingers.“So that’s two before the carriages and another two after, plus a second in the driver’s box beside both myself and Sir Sieglinde, with room for another two, one in each of the coaches, unless Your Grace would prefer to find a temporary second retainer here in Helion?”Caederyn shakes his head, his lips pursing.“Then that’s eight men, easily, unless you’d like to take larger coaches or further expand the escort.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I think that’s enough,” he replies.“I don’t want to ask too much.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The duchess shakes her head.“Whatever you need, I will offer; I would feel better knowing you were safe.You are my closest living family and I could not live with myself should you come to harm with me knowing I did not do my utmost to keep you protected.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can see in her that same fierce pride I’ve seen before in Caederyn — her handsome face resolute with a deep and abiding love.I’ve caught glimpses of that expression on his face sometimes when he regards Feon, certain the dragon isn’t looking his way.I saw much the same look in him when he set his back to me, sword in hand, and fought for our lives.I realize, then, that perhaps there is another reason, aside from our privacy, that the duchess did not include any from her own court to join us for dinner.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The smile on Caederyn’s face is so slight that I might have missed it if it were not for the softness in his eyes.“Thank you, Emira,” he replies, his voice tight with emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of dinner proceeds much more normally.Once the servants are summoned to resume service, we share a quiet meal.The mood shifts slowly, eventually turning more companionable than somber.I notice throughout that Feon remains oddly reticent, barely speaking at all, apparently still minding Caederyn’s earlier reprimand.At dinner’s conclusion, the duchess rises and pulls Caederyn into a tight hug and they exchange words too quiet for me to hear.When they part, she turns to me and takes my hands in her own before leaning in to kiss me on either cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope to spend more time with you under less grim circumstances,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you for your hospitality tonight, Lady Murrine, and for your kindness.”I smile at her.Her hands are so warm around mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace, I would rather that you call me by name, if it is to your liking; I would like it if you came to see me as family.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the contents of our earlier conversation and the amount of wine I consumed, I find myself quite moved.“Emira, then,” I say, my voice gone a bit wobbly with emotion.“Please call me Allene.”She smiles, then, and embraces me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once back in our chambers and preparing for bed, I mull over the oddness of tonight.“I think I rather like her,” I muse as Fidelity braids my hair for sleep.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She is lovely, isn’t she,” Fidelity breathes, her hands faltering as she sighs wistfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh, then.“Don’t you go catching feelings, we’ll not be here much longer.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence smiles as she draws back the duvet.“Fidelity’s young heart can’t help it.She falls for everyone, a bit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m only three years your junior,” Fidelity replies, shooting Clemence a scathing look with no real heat in it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ahh, young love!” I tease, and then yelp when Fidelity tugs sharply on my hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m twenty-five,” she huffs, sounding very put upon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A veritable babe fresh out the womb,” Clemence says with mock solemnity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We part for bed, my ladies leaving to rest in a separate chamber that joins with my own.As I lay in bed, I realize this is the first time I’ve slept alone since leaving Voswain.It’s nice to have a room to myself again, and I’ve certainly missed the comfort of a proper mattress, as well as pillows and blankets of satisfactory quality, but I also find it strangely lonely.There’s no one by my side, no familiar face to offset the foreign surroundings, no gentle sound of breathing to assure me that all is well, no comfort of my friends’ arms around me.I know, in my heart, that we are safe here.Caederyn seems to trust the duchess implicitly and I see no reason to doubt his judgement.And yet I can’t forget the darkness that swallowed our carriage, the screaming of the coach’s suspension, the smell of blood and sweat thick in the air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press my eyes closed and force myself to slow my breathing.I had thought myself past this fear, as I hadn’t felt it since entering the city of Helion, but it is with me still, laying in wait until I found myself alone.Fear is a strange thing.It makes my heart race and my muscles tense as my body waits, alert, for something to show itself and prove my panic to be reasonable; and simultaneously, it exhausts me, draining me to my very core.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know how long I lay there trying to force myself to restfulness, before I finally throw myself out of bed and scurry to the door.I knock softly and bite my lip, hoping it’s loud enough to be heard if they are awake, but soft enough to not rouse them if they are not.I don’t know how long I wait there, only that it feels like ages, my breath coming in short gusts betwixt my lips.Then the door opens a crack and Clemence peers out nervously.Dark as it is, between her pale face and dark nightgown, she almost looks like a headless specter in the night.When she sees my face, she opens the door fully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Allene…”I don’t know what she sees in my expression, but it is enough that she pulls me into her arms without hesitation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t sleep,” I finally manage, my voice cracking.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods and looks back into her chamber. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fidelity?” she calls softly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a rustle and then the quiet slap of feet on hard wood and Fidelity joins us, bleary eyed, her coppery hair a right mess.We stand there silently for a moment, staring at one other.I feel frozen in my need, shame stilling my tongue.Then Clemence presses a hand to my shoulder and turns me around and walks me back into my room. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve got such a large bed to yourself, it seems wholly unnecessary,” she remarks perfunctorily, as if all of this is very normal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She steers me forward until we are at the bed’s side.She slides to the far side of the mattress and then pulls me down beside her, into the middle, and Fidelity joins on my right.The two of them wrap their arms about me, the way they did the night before, and together we eventually find sleep.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Emira is as good as her word.After a quick breakfast, we are summoned to the mews, where the marshal, a short man with a thick mustache and oddly pretty eyes, shows us to our new travel accommodations.It’s surprisingly chilly out this morning, even with the sun bright and the sky clear, enough so that I have to wrap a thick shawl about myself.We stand just outside the shadow of Anneal Palace in the paved courtyard that borders both the main structure as well as the stables, the gentle sounds of the beasts kept within like a texture on the breeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The marshal chats with Caederyn companionably as we all stand around waiting.Off to one side, I can see Captain Elske sizing up the guards Lady Emira accorded our party.The Captain must have roused long before the rest of us, for I heard Sir Sieglinde commiserating with one of the new recruits about her unforgiving captain’s stringent standards and that, yes, they would be expected to keep up with her rigorous regimen, but it wasn’t so bad once you got used to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear the distinct clang of metal hooves on stone and turn to see our transport approaching, a page in red and cream livery at the head, with the cartwyrms’ leads in hand.With his youthful face and his red-brown hair cropped bluntly just below the chin, he bears a passing resemblance to poor deceased Sir Lonan, and for a moment guilt squeezes at my heart, an unkind reminder of the price of my bullheaded pride.Caederyn stands frozen beside the obliviously grinning marshal and I can tell he sees it too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our new carriages exit the shadow of the stables’ cover and pull up beside us.The coachmen hop down from the driver’s boxes, one after the other, and hand the reins off to Sir Sieglinde and Captain Elske, who have left the recruits to inspect our new vehicles.One of the coaches is finely made in an ordinary way, with a glossy black veneer accented in red and gold, and with space for two footmen to stand at the back.The second is a work of art. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unlike our previous coach, the body of this carriage is nearly spherical, though it is slightly wider than it is tall and the base has been made flat for convenience.I can see that the structure of the coach is simple enough — thin, arcing black metal beams that emanate from the base and join together at the top.It is what is between those beams that is so spectacular: panels of colored glass in vivid reds, oranges, and yellows, arranged in geometric patterns, the colors shifting beautifully in the light, like dancing tongues of flame.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve seen round carriages before, tiny ornamental things that seat one (or perhaps two at a squeeze) but this is large enough to comfortably hold four passengers.Despite this, it still looks delicate, the intricacy of its black metal latticework and the striking color of its glass making it nearly look a living, breathing thing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s absolutely beautiful,” I breathe, awed.“But… is it safe?” I ask skeptically, raising a hand to tap the glass, which is slightly warm to the touch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The marshal gives a hearty laugh that makes his mustache quiver.“Your Grace, it is a fair sight safer than your average coach.”He raps a knuckle against the carriage’s side.“The sand and ash used to make this glass were melted by dragon fire.You’d be hard pressed to find somewhat that will do you better than this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve encountered this material before — drachenglas, it’s called — but it is incredibly rare in Voswain and even a simple cup can be ridiculously expensive.I should know, as I once had a suitor spend a small fortune on a necklace of drachenglas beads in the hope that his deep pockets would cause me to forget his terrible personality, as if I were some simpleton with no coin of my own and no standards besides.I can’t even begin to fathom the cost of something like this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is an incredibly generous gift,” I say, brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The marshal beams at me, arms akimbo, his chest puffed with pride.“Her Grace the Duchess of Helion asked that it be regarded as an early wedding present.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Preparations are made then — the marshal spends some time familiarizing Captain Elske with the drachenglas coach’s idiosyncrasies, including a function that transforms the glass from near opaque flame tones to a bubble-like clarity: perfectly transparent at the center and fading to translucent red at either extremity, with little flecks of gold dancing over the surface.Perfect, the marshal says, for allowing for public visibility without sacrificing safety.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time when we drive through Helion, we move at a more sedate pace, and I’m finally able to get a better look at the city around us, which I find to be rather charming.The tightly packed buildings are arranged neatly, all white faces and blue trims and slanting red tile roofs, their foundations shored up with pale brown cobblestones.Vegetation is scarce and what bits of greenery I do see are always in carefully paved squares.A young mother and her two children stop to wave as we pass.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you certain they can’t see us?” I ask dubiously, the tip of my forefinger pressed to what appears to me to be transparent glass — albeit with a faint rosy tint — leaving me feeling terribly exposed.Across from me, Caederyn sits straight backed and calm, while beside him Feon slouches, looking bored. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m glad that in the end it was deemed safe to not include an armed escort inside the carriage with us.With three guards before our caravan and another five behind, one added to each of the driver’s boxes beside the captain and Sir Sieglinde, as well as two guards posed as footmen on the backs of both coaches, Captain Elske finally relented to Feon’s protestations that adding a fourth to our number would likely only limit his mobility should the need arise for him to protect either myself or the prince.For my part, I found that I didn’t much like the idea of spending several days in close quarters with both my fiancé, his personal dragon, and a complete stranger, and so was relieved to have the matter settled thusly.Besides which, I doubt there is anywhere safer than in the company of both the prince and his loyal dragon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite,” Caederyn replies kindly.“It’s a specialty of the drachenglas — with a small magic core that stores energy from the sun, it is able to let the outside light in, while simultaneously reflecting it to those without.When the glass appears transparent, that is its normal, inactive state.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I mull this over, one hand pressed thoughtfully to my mouth, my forefinger curled against my lips, thumb resting under my chin.I find it very surprising that Caederyn, who hitherto has shown neither a knowledge of nor an aptitude for magic, nevertheless is familiar enough with such a rare and valuable material that he is easily able to explain its mechanics to me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it common here?” I ask, bemused.“Drachenglas, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn looks at me thoughtfully and I wonder if he could hear the envy in my heart.“I wouldn’t say it is common… but you forget that I grew up in a palace that has been home to many dragons.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, feeling a little stupid for not realizing that myself.“Did you grow up around a lot of dragons, then?Other than Feon, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shakes his head.“No, just Feon, for the most part.They don’t tend to stick around after their Bonded dies.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I think on that for a moment, wondering what it must feel like to live through a natural human lifespan, to watch someone you love grow old and weak, and to know you have many decades still before you will even begin to feel age nipping at your heels.In those circumstances, I don’t think I’d choose to stay either.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our coach slows to a halt outside a flat roofed, curved building, one of the few in the area to stretch higher than two stories.Its face is a muted brick red, its stones rusticated, with a set of shallow white stairs that lead up to a slightly raised first story, its entrance recessed several feet behind a set of ornamental pillars.The windows and doors are all trimmed in white, with delicate limestone carvings decorating much of the building’s available surface. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stands and presses his hand to the carriage’s wall, his fingers questing for a hidden catch.I hear a click and the door, which had prior been seamless with the rest of the glass body, swings open, beckoning inside a chill breeze.Caederyn exits the coach and then holds out a hand to help me down the single step onto the sunny cobblestone street. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We wait side by side as our newly expanded guard falls into formation, some joining us and others staying with the carriages.The additions to our guard do, indeed, seem highly proficient — even the slightest among their number moves with a diligent crispness — but there is a notable awkwardness in their coordination with Sir Sieglinde and the captain.It’s as if they are dancers being taught new choreography in an unusual time signature.The skill is there but the familiarity is not. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At any rate, it gives me time to get a closer look at the building before us.Set above the columned entryway is a beautifully rendered stone dragon’s head, a festoon of laurels and thistles hanging from its mouth.Below the dragon’s head is a carved set of letters in the common alphabet, which separately I can read, but is nothing but gibberish to me in this particular arrangement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What does it say?” I ask, staring at the carved letters, feeling rather miffed.I had thought myself quite proficient with the Nadaran written language, as both it and Voswainian are rooted in Emani, but apparently not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon steps up beside me, his golden hair glinting in the sunlight.“<em>Sinde Ehsser</em>.Unto Ash.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s it?” I ask, my annoyance growing.“That’s <em>ridiculous.</em>Those don’t match <em>at all.</em>Where did all those extra letters go between the writing and the saying of it?”Our retinue gathers around us, Jasper a step behind Caederyn, Clemence and Fidelity falling to either side of me, Captain Elske and Sir Sieglinde helming our group as we take the stairs up to the wide, arched doorway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon rolls his eyes at me.“It’s phonetic Daenian.Human mouths aren’t capable of pronouncing <em>most</em> of our sounds, and so you end up with this.”He gestures up towards the carved phrase above before we pass under it and into the awning’s shade.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is there no Daenian alphabet?” I ask curiously.The captain pushes the door open before us and ushers us inside.Most of the other guards have stayed behind with the coaches, but three have been selected to round out our group, following after myself and Caederyn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly how many dragons make a habit of writing books, do you think?” Feon asks with a bark of derisive laughter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I expect the Bonded dragons, at least, might have reason to record their thoughts in ink,” I huff, trying to cover my embarrassment with reason.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, the Bonded dragons who are already ingrained in human culture, who have already learned the common alphabet.Those dragons.Who occasionally record our language.Phonetically.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glare at the back of his golden head, but am unable to come up with a sufficient retort before we pass through the wide, sunlit foyer and come to a stop before a white stone desk.Its front panel is carved with an intricate relief of a snarling dragon, in its jaws a sheaf of wheat and thistle.Behind the desk sits an ancient, hunched woman, so shrunken from old age that when she stands to greet us, she grows no taller.Her ashen skin is so thin and papery and so lined with wrinkles, she looks as if a stiff breeze could be the end of her.She smells so strongly of cloves that even from several paces back, it is all I can smell.I watch as Feon reels back momentarily and then looses a tremendous sneeze.Bleary eyed and grumble faced, he draws a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his nose.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sun’s grace,” she says, her quavering voice cracking with age. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She bows low towards us, her movements slow and faltering, and I fear for her back.She is dressed plainly and in many layers — a tabard overtop a long hooded tunic and baggy-legged trousers, and a shirt with voluminous bishop sleeves, with a shawl wrapped about her shoulders — all of it in charcoal gray.Little wisps of white hair escape from a gray headscarf that is let to fall freely about her shoulders, except for under her chin, where it has been joined together.The only bit of color on her person are two red dots, one beneath each eye, for even her eyes and skin seem to have lost their pigment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How may this old ashwarden help you, Young Sun?”I don’t know if that is a common form of address in Nadara, but somehow I doubt it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Upon seeing her, even Feon’s mood has instantly sobered.He looks as if he has come down with the world’s most enervating case of hay fever and every minute or so he rubs at his nose gloomily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two of the three guards who followed in at our heels press forward, and we all move aside so that they may wheel their burdens to the foot of the desk.Each man bears a long, rectangular wooden box set atop a hand trolley.I didn’t see them load the containers, but I know what they carry within them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We have two,” Caederyn begins, and then hesitates, his voice tight with repressed emotion.He looks pained, a harsh crease in his brow, his jaw clenched.“Two for whom we wish to have the final rights performed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The old woman nods placidly and raises one gnarled, spindly finger to point toward a door on the far side of the room.“Have them taken in there,” she says, and the guards do so.“When did they depart?” the ashwarden asks, as if inquiring about the weather.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yesterday,” Caederyn answers, “Around dusk.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what were their names?And their natures?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Caederyn hesitates, his dark eyes flicking back towards the others.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir Lonan Finch.He was a sweet thing,” Sir Sieglinde finally says, her voice a little wobbly.“Very caring, particularly towards animals.I’ve never seen someone so beloved by beasts.”The massive woman sniffles loudly, her already red face gone all blotchy with emotion, and tries to covertly wipe a tear from her eye with a thick, shaking finger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He was skilled, despite his youth — and fearless, perhaps because of that,” Captain Elske offers, arms crossed over her chest, straight-backed and rigid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He was a good man,” Caederyn says finally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the other?” the old woman asks.She hasn’t pen or paper with which to notate these words, and considering her age I worry she may forget, but none of the Nadarans seem concerned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mikhail Kennard,” Jasper answers, his voice cracking.“He was…”He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerve to continue.“He was a hopeless romantic who never knew when to let things lie, and he had terrible opinions on everything from literature to politics.”Jasper lets out a small, shaky laugh.“He was a huge idiot and my dearest friend.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He was very brave,” Fidelity adds, her voice trembling.“I did not know him well or for long, but he… But that, I could see.”I can tell from the way her lip quivers that she is trying very hard not to cry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence speaks, then.“He would always do his best to distract us from our troubles, whether with a joke or a song or some tall tale…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a long silence then.“He was loyal to a fault,” Caederyn says at last, his eyes downcast.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the silence returns, it is with a heavy finality.I knew Mikhail and Sir Lonan hardly at all, but I can feel the grief around me like a rising tide, ready to choke us all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what material would you like for the anamnesis?” the ashwarden asks, unbothered by our mourning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The best you have,” Caederyn answers.“Money is no object.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The old woman nods.“And for payment—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn nods jerkily towards his lone remaining retainer.“Jasper — would you —” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jasper nods and when Caederyn turns sharply and strides out of the building, Feon close at his heel, the attendant takes the prince’s place before the desk.I hesitate for a short moment and then follow after the both of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Outside it is startlingly bright, the sun glaring bleakly down upon us.In the short amount of time since we entered the building, the temperature has jumped, raising to the point that I no longer need my shawl.A warm breeze buffets me, rustling my skirts.Caederyn stands at the corner of the building, Feon’s hand clasped tightly around his upper arm as he whispers something into the prince’s ear, his golden eyes bright and fierce.When Feon catches sight of me, he halts, and both he and the prince straighten slightly.Feon looks at me with open dislike, but Caederyn’s expression is shuttered, his eyes cast to the side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend the few moments it takes for me to join them trying to think of something to say to Caederyn, something comforting and sweet as would be suitable from his future wife, but instead all I can think is to ask, “We aren’t taking their bodies to their families?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pinched look on Caederyn’s face drops slightly, tension making way for confusion.“What would they do with their bodies?” he asks, as if I’ve suggested something ludicrous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, hold a funeral, for one.Before the body is interred,” I reply, feeling ridiculous for having to explain this.“It seems strange to bury a body without giving the family time to mourn their loss.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn frowns at me.“Why would we bury their bodies?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because,” I answer, nonplussed, “They’re dead.”It is perhaps one of the most tactless things I have ever said.Caederyn turns from me slightly, his expression growing drawn and distant.“Do you not… bury your dead?” I ask sheepishly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And where would you rather dig a grave: in the rock, the clay or the sand?” Feon asks snidely, his arm around Caederyn’s back.“Or perhaps we should use our farmland to bury our people instead of feeding them?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I begin, flustered and deeply mortified at my own behavior.“I just—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn closes his eyes and pinches the skin between his brows with thumb and forefinger.“We have other means of remembering our dead.I know you didn’t mean any offense, but now… now is not a good time.”He sounds exhausted.His shoulders slump, his usually impeccable posture apparently eroded slightly by my boorish behavior.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I say again, softer this time.I take one of his hands in my own.“I’m sorry for being so callous.Sometimes my curiosity gets in the way of my common sense.”At that, Caederyn’s lips twitch.It’s not a smile, but it’s as close as I’ll get, given the circumstances.“And I’m sorry for your loss.”</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of our time in Helion passes quickly.That afternoon we make an appearance at the crowded reopening of an art museum, which had to close for repairs after a certain installation spontaneously combusted and scorched an entire wing of the building, which, apparently, only made the pieces effected <em>more </em>provocative and valuable.We shake hands with artists and dealers and wealthy collectors and the general public alike, we kiss some babies, and Caederyn is even asked to name one.All the while, our guards stand close by, unobtrusive but obvious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When evening comes, Lady Emira invites us to a fabulous dinner that is the polar opposite of the previous night’s intimate meal.Everyone who is anyone in Helion has been invited, the bougie old money rubbing elbows with this generation’s it girls and curmudgeonly, standoffish artists who, despite their general lack of manners, hold a surprising amount of social currency in the city.I watch as Fidelity flirts shamelessly with a wiry man whose coat has been patched so many times and with such an eclectic array of fabrics that it is actually rather fetching.I smile as I catch her peppering in bits about our “dreadfully dangerous trek through the Ogrench wilds; oh, the horror!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I come to understand, through conversation and eavesdropping, that Helion is something of an artisan city, best known for is ceramic and glasswork, as well as for its finely made pigments.The bulk of its industry lies in the more mundane execution of these crafts, but it has also birthed a thriving artistic community that is as fiercely defensive of its own members as it is furiously self-cannibalizing.At one point I watched a man roused to shouting, spittle flying from his open lips, as he confronted a young artist who had purchased a sketch made by an old, dead master, erased it, had it framed, and then submitted it to a gallery showing; however, when a critic from the crowd joined in to say the piece was not art, that it was no better than vandalism, the old man loudly and thoroughly immolated him, reducing the critic to tears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the party, Caederyn, Feon, Emira and I retire to a quiet lounge with our retinue where we share drinks and old stories late into the night.Perhaps an hour later, there is a knock at the door, and a young page enters, a small black velvet bag in his hands.He proffers it to Caederyn, who thanks him, and opens the bag.Inside are two golden disks, each one about the width of my palm.On one side is a relief of a series of straight lines and dots — a constellation, I realize — that is identical on each disk.And on the other side — on one, Lonan’s name is inscribed, along with a beautiful rendering of a deer; on the second, Mikhail’s name and a pair hands gently cupping a small flame.When I look back at Caederyn’s face, his eyes are glistening and over bright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do they mean?” I ask, voice hushed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn speaks falteringly.“They’re tokens of remembrance, placed beside the body as it’s cremated.The constellation represents the time of death, the time when the body ceased to be a vessel; the other side…It’s a depiction of how the deceased’s loved ones saw them.How we remember them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, feeling slightly dazed and very tipsy and much too emotional for this time of night. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I realize soon that there is not a dry eye in the room — including my own.Fidelity hiccups despondently and attempts to smother the sound by taking a large gulp of her wine.She hiccups again, the sound echoing from her open mouth into her glass, an ungodly loud croak.She flushes and sinks down into the plush red loveseat she shares with Clemence, who lays a sympathetic hand on her knee.Fidelity bursts into tears, then, her skin turning red and blotchy all down her cheeks and neck, her face scrunched up with emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Fidelity..!” I say, feeling the words choke in my throat as my own tears rise to the surface.Clemence pulls our friend into a hug and soon I rush over to join them, crowding into the small couch on Fidelity’s other side.We all squeeze tightly together in a space that was not meant to hold three.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is absolute <em>rubbish,”</em> Fidelity gasps between loud, heaving sobs, a glistening line of snot gathering on the shelf of her upper lip.“I hate — I hate knowing that they died — that Mikhail, he died protecting me.And for what?”She gulps in air, tears streaming down her face.“I’m not.”I can feel her shoulders trembling as I hold her tightly.“I’m not a fool.I know my worth.”I look at her sharply, then, and am shocked to see the bitterness in her sweet face.“Allene — my lady.”She grabs my hands in her own.“You are someone worth protecting.Worth dying for.”Her hands grip mine so tightly that her knuckles go white.“I’m — I’m not a bad person.But I’m not… I’m not worth <em>this.”</em>Her words end in a gasp, like her emotion has punched all the air out of her, before another heaving sob grips her, too powerful for her body to handle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not about worth.”With the intensity of the moment, I hadn’t noticed the captain’s approach until she spoke.She stands before us now, a looming figure, her back straight, her eyes fierce.“We live a dangerous life; we know, coming into this, that sometimes protecting others means we forfeit our own safety.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And Mikhail?” Fidelity demands, her face set with grief.“He wasn’t a knight or a guard or — or any sort of fighter.And he took up a blade.For us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske surveys the three of us, our tear-stained faces, the way we cling together, as if the three of us combined must surely have the strength that, separated, none of us possess. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I understand that this sort of violence is new to you,” the captain says, and I can tell from the restraint in her voice that she is choosing her words carefully.“Mikhail served at our prince’s side long enough to see danger in many guises.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance away from Captain Elske, across to where Caederyn sits, his face tight, the two golden tokens gripped in his hands.Feon rests at his feet, head leaned into his prince’s knee, a wine glass clutched in his hand, a flush from the emotion or the drink — I can’t tell which — bright in his cheeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Guilt is for the living,” the captain continues, her scarred face bleak.“You can hate them for their sacrifice or hate yourself for surviving; but it does not do service to their memories.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity is shaking, her hands clenched in her lap, clutching at the fabric of her skirts, her head bowed, hot tears splashing down upon her skin.Her wine glass has long since been seized by Clemence who, I think wisely, no longer trusted her with it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s enough,” Lady Emira says sharply, and I’m surprised by the steel in her voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The captain’s brown eyes shift from us and on to the duchess, who sits in a chair to our right, and then Captain Elske bows her head, deferential, her face absent of emotion, and she retreats to resume her post at the wall.Lady Emira rises from her seat like a flower unfolding, poised and beautiful, the petals of her gown radiating about her in a cascade of black velvet.She approaches and then, to my surprise, kneels before us.Gently, oh so gently, she takes Fidelity’s hands in her own, her amber eyes filled with a deep and pervading compassion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It will take time,” Lady Emira says, and her voice is soft.Somewhere, behind the kindness, there is pain, too.“Grief is a terrible and wonderful and complicated thing, and it cannot exist without love to feed it.It is not a weakness to feel that pain and to wonder at your place in it, but it is important to remember our debts to the living as well.”Fidelity stares down at her, enraptured, soft breaths wheezing from betwixt her open lips.“In some ways, grief never truly heals.But it does get better.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The duchess squeezes Fidelity’s hands softly.“You are very fortunate to have friends who love you dearly.”She smiles at both myself and Clemence in turn.“It will hurt, but they will help you.It doesn’t need to make sense or feel justified.I have long since learned that life is a senseless, selfish beast that will take as it wants and leave us to gather the rubble.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From across the room I hear a small sob and watch as Jasper, who had been notably quiet all night, breaks down into the sort of deep, gut wrenching tears that leave a soul weary and spent.Fidelity glances at Lady Emira and something passes between them, too quick for the rest of us.Fidelity stands quickly, the duchess not long after her, and rushes to Jasper’s side to lean down and pull him into a hug, Nadaran propriety be damned.Her arms are tight around his shoulders, her neatly braided hair now a mess of unkept red tendrils come loose like a blaze of crackling fire around her head.After a moment, Jasper’s arms move to circle her back and he clings to her, his hands trembling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve never before spent a night like this: the lot of us overly emotional and none too sober.There are tears, many of them, and tales of Mikhail’s hapless escapades and Lonan’s kindness.Sir Sieglinde, in particular, is loudly effusive in her grief, and most of the stories about Lonan are hers.Many of Jasper’s words have to be supplemented by Captain Elske, Sir Sieglinde, or Feon, as the valet is often too overcome by emotion to complete his thoughts.Through it all, Caederyn sits silently, his face stony in the way that a jutting cliff may be: jagged and seemingly impenetrable, but ever so slowly being worn down by the violence of the waves breaking against it, the inevitability of the tide; when the cracks begin to show, you know that soon an avalanche will follow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is much too late at night — or rather, early in the morning — when, at last, we part.At the doorway, Lady Emira stops me, her hands resting at my shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope that you will write me,” she says fondly.I can tell from the redness in her eyes that she, too, has been crying.She leans in close and kisses me on the cheek.When she speaks again, her voice is a whisper, ghosting over the curve of my ear.“Please take care of him.”She presses a kiss to my other cheek.“And please, if you can… please love him.”She withdraws far enough for me to see her face and I find that her eyes are wet and vulnerable, her handsome face lined with worry. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She holds me there for a long moment as we stare at one another.Finally, I smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As best as I am able, I will,” I say, and hope furiously that it is enough. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods and squeezes my shoulders in her hands before pulling me into a tight hug.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our last morning in Helion is heralded by a spectacular parade; the city has gone all out with its preparations, even going so far as to station pyrotechnic operators on a number of roofs along our route, so that as we pass, brilliant bursts of color and sound shower the gathered crowd, while ahead of us a marching band beats the rhythm of our progress.I stand hand in hand with Caederyn, our coach made transparent, and smile out at the cheering faces.We are, the lot of us, rather exhausted and bleary eyed from the emotional night before, several of us nursing headaches as we squint into the bright day.Still, we make a good show of it, and when we depart it is to a raucous and jubilant crowd crying out our names as trumpets blare proudly behind us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our time in Deneli is less pleasant.The city, I feel, is rather superfluous, no more than a natural consequence of the fortress it surrounds and the path to it from Helion rises sharply.When I had studied a map of Nadara previously, I assumed we would be traveling along the Glut most, if not all, of the way, but as the incline grows steeper, the river drops away, a deep gouge in the red-orange land.By the time Deneli is in sight, my breaths come in short puffs and I feel faintly dizzy.Caederyn looks at me with concern and tells me to rest and drink more water.While he doesn’t seem to be having the best time, he certainly seems to be faring better than I.Feon, of course, seems completely unbothered by the altitude.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow,” he says snidely, “Never thought I’d see a northerner so unnerved by heights.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I am just reassuring myself that soon we’ll be in a city and I’ll be able to rest properly, when our caravan comes to a halt.I sit up slightly, blinking confusedly as Caederyn steps out of the coach briefly.The open door brings with it a blast of cool wind that whips me in the face.A small laugh bubbles from my lips.With so much damn air about, how am I still having so much trouble breathing?Caederyn returns and we set off again, slower this time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s only when I’m gazing absently out the side of the glass carriage and I see the land suddenly drop away into nothingness that I realize we are crossing the canyon.I jump, stifling a small cry, feeling like my stomach has been wrung out like a soapy rag before being tossed somewhere in the general proximity of my feet.A truly nauseating distance below us, the bright blue-green waters of the Glut sparkle innocently with the last golden rays of sunlight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before us, rising like a monolithic fist thrust up through the Glut’s rushing waters, is the bright carnelian cliff that the citizens of Deneli (who must be absolutely <em>mad)</em> call home.The city itself is relatively small, a tight halo of short rust colored buildings that emanate in tidy rings from the fortress at its center.The fortress is carved into a massive natural rock pillar at the cliff’s midpoint.It’s a mass of contradictions, its brilliant coral color offsetting the rigid construction, which itself fights the rough edges and organic forms of the natural rock from which it was hewn. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The people of Deneli are stiff and dull, too caught up in military protocol to be much fun.Compared to them, Captain Elske is a veritable font of mirth, prone to bouts of ebullient passion.I’m relieved to find we’re not to spend much time here, that this is a glorified pitstop so that we can refill our stores and sleep in real beds — hard and uncomfortable as they may be.After a brief procession the next day — and, I do have to admit, despite the lack of spectacle, the precision of the soldiers’ marching formation is rather impressive — we set off on the last leg of our journey.Thankfully, the land recedes naturally and we do not need to cross another ravine, and soon I’m able to breathe easily once more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we pass through a small town, I voice my curiosity about a matter that has been bothering me for several days now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How is the farmland here so lush and green, when everything else is all rocky and sparse?”I’d noticed it at first when we passed over the Nadaran border.Ogren’s greenery dropped off sharply, I think unnaturally so, making way for the rocky, arid lands of Nadara.Despite this, we have passed several stretches of farmland, all of which seemed to be thriving.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn sits on the other side of the coach, his hands busied with another whittling project.Beside him, Feon is snoozing, his head resting on the prince’s shoulder, lips parted slightly, the corner of his mouth glistening with a hint of drool. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dragon ash,” Caederyn answers.He glances up and sees my questioning look and continues.“Think of a volcanic eruption.”He pauses here, taking a moment to focus on a particular cut of his knife as he carves into the chunk of wood in his hands.“After spewing rocks and dust about and spilling magma down its sides, the lava swallows anything living, trees and animals and people alike, and burns it all to ash.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod, following along.“I’ve read about the eruption of Mt. Timpani, which obliterated the surrounding towns.The landscape was devastated, but within a year or two, new growth had already begun to flourish, and within ten years a low forest had risen.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn nods.“So we do something similar, only using dragon fire and without all the incidental death.Ash is already somewhat commonly used as a fertilizer, usually wood ash; the dragon fire just…”Here, he shrugs one shoulder, careful not to disturb Feon on his other.“I don’t know how it works; it’s magic.But it does something.Adds something.And the land flourishes.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks away from me, out the wide expanse of glass that forms our carriage wall, taking in the juxtaposed landscape around us: the bountiful green farmland against the rolling red hills, the land he will one day rule.It hits me anew, then: it is the land we will one day rule together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why haven’t I heard of this before?” I ask curiously.“I’d surmise, based on context clues, that the dragon ash must have some form of magical value, though I’ve never seen a spell that calls for its use.But besides that, Voswain has need of its own creative agricultural solutions, as it is too cold to grow much other than root vegetables for a near quarter of the year.But I’ve never encountered mention of it in our import logs during council meanings, and over the past few months I’ve paid extra attention to our dealings with Nadara.Because, well…”I shift in my seat and nudge one of his feet with my own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiles back at me, but it’s a shallow thing, and I watch as he withdraws into himself, formality and good posture forming a barrier between his emotions and the rest of the world — which, right now, is me.It’s a habit I’ve observed in him several times during this journey and I don’t enjoy being the recipient of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a… very controlled substance,” he finally answers.“Both because of its cultural significance and because it can be somewhat volatile when mishandled.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He clears his throat then and shifts in his seat.“Regardless, and despite our naturally arid climate, Nadara does boast a certain variety of plant life.Artichokes, peppers, cotton, beans, melons, licorice…”He gives me a long look and his expression shifts and opens, his smile taking on a hint of mischief — a quality not often found in his face.“And roses.Roses do very well here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile, then, and feel my face grow slightly warm; his implication is not lost on me.I lean back in my seat and glance out at the land around us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s reassuring,” I reply softly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We sit together quietly for some time — a Nadaran dragon and his Voswainian rose — and I hope silently and furiously that his words prove true.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter was kind of a bitch to write.  between the stress of a global pandemic and going kind of stir-crazy self quarantining (even tho i already worked from home!!), it took longer than i would have liked to write this. still, i hope it was enjoyable regardless!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We time our arrival in the Nadaran capitol of Soliss so that we breach its borders just after the sun crests its zenith.It’s a beautiful spring day and here, in Nadara, it is truly spring — clear skies, calm breezes, the gentle kiss of the sun’s warmth, the scent of life and growth in the air.I know that on the other side of the continent, Voswain is still in the last clutches of winter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we descend the last stretch of Solfoss bridge, beneath which glitters a deceptively placid lake that stretches farther across than I can see, a loud cry rises up before us.There, at the lake’s foot, amassed upon the wide stone promenade, is a crowd of brightly dressed people, all of them waving and cheering effusively as they wait for us.Clearly, the Helion couriers who had been dispatched to Soliss ahead of us had succeeded in delivering news of our progress.We pause briefly at the guard station erected at the lake’s edge, just long enough for Feon to hop out of the carriage while Captain Elske does whatever it is that makes the drachenglas turn transparent, before we are briskly waved forward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn and I rise to stand in the coach’s center, beaming out at the people, our hands clasped, bodies turned at an angle to one another so that each of us faces partially towards one side of the carriage.The crowd surrounds our caravan, throwing confetti and flower petals and rice, close enough that I can make out individual faces if I focus on them, but not close enough for them to touch.Our new guard, gifted to us by the Duchess of Helion, has formed a barrier between our coaches and the people surrounding us, and I watch through the glass as, sitting straight backed and proud, Captain Elske maneuvers our vehicle through the sea of bodies, on towards the broad, glittering street beyond.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The crowd follows, falling in around us, chattering and singing and calling out to me, to their prince — and, to my surprise, to Feon.For his part, the dragon has assumed a place at the rear of our coach, where he stands haughtily on the footboard, the sunlight gleaming in his golden hair.A shadow falls over his face and without even looking up he reaches out and lazily catches a bouquet of marigolds with such ease that it’s as if he simply plucked it from the air itself.He catches me out then, his eyes falling to mine, his mouth pulling into a frown as he glowers down at me from his elevated step on the other side of the glass.I laugh and wink at him, unbothered, before turning away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The further we travel into the city, the more people join our procession.As we cross into the wide mainstreet of Soliss, we are accompanied by a chorus of trumpets and a barrage of drums as a band falls in at the head of our caravan, the crowd parting around them with much cheering and clapping.The sidewalks and roofs are all lined with people, with even more hanging out the windows of houses and shops, all packed in close to get a good view of us.Overhead, there is a burst of light and then the air is filled with a shower of bright golden confetti and pale white and yellow rose petals.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stands beside me, straight backed and stoic, his hand clasped tightly around my own.I smile up at him, my cheeks aching with happiness, and without preamble I reach forward to press my free hand to the curve of his jaw, his short beard tickling my fingers, and lean up to kiss him.He stills for a moment, body going stiff, and then his hand moves to my waist and the line of his mouth softens as he presses his lips back into mine.I hear a series of popping sounds outside and look up to see another burst of confetti, silver this time, with little bursts of baby’s breath and honeysuckle blooms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh and my hand drops to Caederyn’s shoulder.He stares back at me, his dark eyes dancing with a quiet joy, a small smile tugging at his lips, his hand warm and solid at the dip of my back.Now with my back to the front of the carriage, I have a clear view of Feon on the other side of the glass, wide-eyed and furious, his gaze fixed on the both of us.His eyes shift from Caederyn and onto me and his glower deepens, unbecoming on his pretty face.I smile back at him serenely and then, just because I can, I kiss Caederyn again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I must confess I was not quite prepared for just how large the city of Soliss is.I’ve always thought of Nadara as somewhat provincial, its fashion and technology and language slow to evolve, its people staunchly polite and easily embarrassed, their propriety ever hindering their growth.I wonder, now, how much my opinion of this country was colored by those select few of its people that I have some passing familiarity with: Caederyn and Feon, of course, and Captain Elske and a number of Nadaran ambassadors and traders and, to some extent, King Rynnwald as well.With the exception of Feon, whom I expect to be something of an anomaly regardless, they all comported themselves with a stiff, reserved serenity that staunchly discouraged any sort of open display of intense emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This same standard does not seem to be held for the common citizens, at least not when they are gathered en mass, who are more than happy to laugh and cheer and sing and call out our names.The city is bright in its decoration — streamers and banners and bolts of cloth coloring the landscape.The main street, what little of it I can see at any rate, is paved with an assortment of pale rocks, white and apricot and coral and taupe, that glitter faintly in the afternoon sun.The buildings around me are a wild mishmash of sizes and styles, some fantastically ornate creations, others squared off and boxy, but all of them are brightly and beautifully colored.It’s a little overwhelming to take in, this barrage of sound and color, for even through the barrier of our coach’s glass, the crowd is quite loud.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Standing once more shoulder to shoulder with Caederyn, I lean towards him slightly, ’til the lengths of our arms are pressed together above where our hands are clasped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m glad,” I say, smiling and waving to the crowd with my free hand.I glance over towards him and catch him looking at me.He smiles back at me uncertainly, but not unhappily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m glad they’re happy to see me.I’m a stranger to these people and I wasn’t certain how they would receive me…” I confess.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He squeezes my hand.“I do not think that will trouble many people.My family is very small and it is not uncommon for us to marry outside our borders.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod, not completely reassured, but feeling better at the very least.This wasn’t something I had worried about much before the ambush, but since then I’ve found my mind consumed by all manner of ill thoughts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn must see it in my expression, I think, for he continues, “My mother is Szerenese.Perhaps she could offer you some insight into the experience.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m excited to meet her,” I reply.“Well, and a bit nervous, too, if I’m being honest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You needn’t be,” he says gently.“She’s very kind and I’m certain she’ll adore you.”He looks back out towards the people surrounding us, his free hand raised high to wave to them.“You’ll charm her just as easily as you do everyone else.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, I laugh.“Does that ‘everyone’ include you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, his cheeks flush slightly.“Well, I do seem to remember agreeing to marry you,” he replies and I can’t find his shyness anything other than ridiculously endearing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now, if only Feon were so taken with me,” I say, sighing.“I’m certain he’s glaring a hole into the back of my head right now but I absolutely refuse to look.He’ll think I’m bothered by his attitude and I won’t give him the satisfaction of that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are, though, aren’t you?” Caederyn asks.His voice has turned stolid, the sweetness of the moment lost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” I reply, exasperated.Caederyn’s hand is a firm presence against my own, warm and steady.“I think so.Probably.”I fight my instinctual frown and remind myself to keep waving and smiling out at the people.“He’s just such a big part of your life and, therefor, will become a big part of mine.It’s frustrating to have him treat me so cancerously on principal.And, if I’m being honest, his tantrums were much cuter when they were not directed towards me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know what you mean,” he commiserates, a shaky laugh on the gust of his exhale.“And I’m sorry I’ve brought his ire upon you.If I’d been thinking at all, I would have thought to warn you beforehand.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It wouldn’t have dissuaded me,” I reply, and bump my shoulder softly against his.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No?” he asks, face turning slightly my way, his mouth quirked up in a small, wondering smile, like he’s still astounded at the prospect of having me at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, Prince Caederyn,” I tease, “But I happen to find you rather charming myself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, he laughs, unconscious of his own appeal or the way his cheeks have pinked in the most becoming manner.“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we near Pyrehart Palace, the scenery around us changes drastically.The palace itself sits upon a hill just west of the center of Soliss, and its slope is one of the few spots of ripe vegetation I’ve seen within the capitol’s borders.It’s not lush in the way the plots of farmland are, but it’s bright and verdant, the tall grass peppered with wildflowers and shrubs and trees, which grow thicker towards the top.At the hill’s base is a thick ring of narrow buildings, tightly packed and mostly well maintained, despite their age.“Oldtown,” Caederyn calls it, the first part of the settlement that eventually became Soliss.Whereas before the streets were broad and set in a neat grid, here they are much narrower and they curve and join and split without much logic, seemingly shaped more by the natural landscape than by human ingenuity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though I’d already found Soliss’ architecture to be rather eclectic, I’m still surprised by the variety I see in Oldtown: on some streets there is new construction, large, finely furnished homes that have overtaken several plots of land; elsewhere, I see old buildings, rigorously preserved and proudly boasting their history; and in other places I spot ramshackle structures that lean dangerously into the aging buildings around them, flimsy additions to house a populace that was not meant for these cramped quarters, with chicken coups on the roofs and clothes lines hanging out of open windows and too many people crowded on the narrow streets.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In one such neighborhood we are waylaid for several minutes, our progress halted as the crowd funnels into the tight, winding street, effectively bottlenecking us into stillness.At our head, Captain Elske moves calmly, calling out orders to both our guards and those from the city of Soliss, who had, until this point, been doing a great job controlling the crowd.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll just be a minute,” Caederyn says, and squeezes my hand comfortingly.Perhaps he can feel my nerves spike dramatically.The last time our coach stopped unexpectedly, we lost two of our own and very nearly could have been slain ourselves.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I reply, taking a deep breath.“Okay.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look away from the surging crowd, out towards the cramped, leaning buildings, at the people who are smiling and shouting.Some of them bear bits of cloth or signs or flags and I realize, to my surprise, that a number of the flags I see peppered amongst the usual Nadaran red and gold are Voswainian in color.Not all the people staring down at us are particularly effusive — some merely gawk, or look passingly interested but not extremely invested, or look annoyed at having their day interrupted by a parade — but this… seeing this heartens me and I relax, just a bit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I catch sight, then, of a woman who is dangling half out a window, shutters thrown open, a bolt of cloth stretched between her two hands, upon which is written, “Prince Caederyn — I don’t mind sharing.” In the window to her right there’s another woman, this one holding a sign that reads, “His Royal Hotness.”I throw my head back and let out a bark of laughter.Caederyn looks at me questioningly and slowly follows my gaze towards the women.He flushes and quickly looks away, his ears going a bit red.I laugh again, so hard I have to wipe the tears from my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, goodness, well, if you’re having any doubts about me, you’ve got options, it seems,” I say. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He just shrugs, face still red.Past him, I catch sight of another sign, this one on a rooftop and large enough that it is being held up by three people, no doubt in order to ensure the text is legible from this distance.“Burn Us To Ash, We’ll Still Rise.”I don’t realize I’ve read it out loud until Caederyn looks back at me sharply.I point to the sign and watch as he turns, his posture going rigid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that a problem?”I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says, and looks away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske has finally managed to wrangle the crowd about us and we move forward, finally, at first slowly as the bodies part around us, some falling behind, some joining along with us.At the base of the hill, there is a high stone wall, crowned with spikes, guard towers posted along its length.We stop before a wide gate and wait as the gate is drawn up.The Soliss guards surround us, forming a barrier of red and black uniformed bodies between us and the common folk so that we may pass the gate unaccompanied.I turn and watch, arm and arm with Caederyn, the both of us smiling and waving as the cheering crowd grows distant and our path begins to slope, winding up the length of the hill, past the tree line, up to Pyrehart Palace.Once the gate is closed again and we are obscured from view, the prince and I sit, weary.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to smile again for another week,” I say, raising both my hands to pat at my sore cheeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you manage that I fear for the longevity of our betrothal,” Caederyn replies, looking amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I swat at his shoulder.“You know what I <em>mean.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pyrehart Palace sits atop the hill’s apex, somewhat smaller than I expected — perhaps sitting on a fundament of a similar scale to Whithelm Castle, but much shorter.It’s wrought in pale stone, which glows with a golden warmth in the early evening sun.At its base is a series of low, wide steps, at the center of which sits a massive fountain, whose waters rise into small geysers at the head, before tumbling down to cascade into a series of waterfalls, each descending several steps below the previous.On either side of the stairs are a series of neatly manicured shrubberies, the foremost of which have been pruned in the shape of arcing dragons, each facing the other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The palace itself is a wide structure, perhaps two or three stories high, with a large, cylindrical tower at its center that reaches a good two flights higher, its doomed roof tapering into a thin spire.Beyond it, I spy a number of other towers, though these are much smaller.Most beautiful of all are the windows — central to the structure and spanning almost the full height of the palace wall are three tall windows, their panes swimming with an array of rich, warm colors, glinting sweetly with sunlight.I’m too far away to tell for certain, but I suspect they’re made of drachenglas.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We pull up a gently curving ramp to one side of the stairs and stop before the palace’s grand front doors, where a squadron of crisply dressed servants set about unloading our cargo with a speed and precision that would inspire envy had I any desire to partake in menial work.Aside from our travel necessities, most of the luggage is mine.I did my best to be judicial in my packing and given that I am uprooting my entire life to live about as far away from home as possible, I think I did rather a good job. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, the bulk of my possessions will be arriving later, along with more well-wishers and others who wish to celebrate our royal union, as well as, I assume, a good number of hangers-on that will be gathered as the caravan makes its slow progression down from Harrogate.Apart from my (admittedly mistaken) adventuring aspirations, this was one of the reasons I had not wished to travel the more traditional route — I knew, having previously traveled in this manner, that the party would quickly swell past capacity, causing complications and slowing the journey to a snail’s pace, and wanted no part of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A servant opens the door to the carriage and Caederyn helps me out.We gather a short distance from the coaches — Caederyn, Feon, Clemence, Fidelity, Jasper, and myself — all standing about uselessly.The sun has dipped below the tree line, now, and I find it surprisingly chilly for we are ostensibly in the desert — or, well, at the very least, vaguely desert adjacent.Captain Elske and Sir Sieglinde join us after handing off the cartwyrms to a pair of stablehands, and then we are all ferried into the palace, a copse of servants swarming our group.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The palace interior is breathtaking, all gleaming floors and vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows, but I don’t have much time to appreciate it.We are quickly led up to the third floor, at which point we split, Caederyn and his retinue going one way as I and my ladies are taken another.We share a brief goodbye — surprisingly awkward after the strange intimacy of sharing a private coach during a public procession — during which Caederyn asks if I’ll join the royal family (and Feon) for a quiet dinner that evening.I agree, of course, and he presses a chaste kiss to my cheek before we part.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My chambers are beautiful, if a bit small — more vaulted ceilings, with intricate gold inlays set into the walls and ceilings, the colors of which vary from room to room.I’ve been given a corner suite, arranged so that my bedroom is at the outside corner of the set of chambers.Two of its walls are consumed by bright, floor length windows that catch the last of the sun’s orange glow as it begins to set.Though the accommodations for the Nadaran stretch of our journey have been much kinder to us than they were in Ogren, my ladies and I are still feeling rather fatigued and somewhat unclean from the short day’s travel, so while the servants bustle about bringing in our things, we adjourn to the bathing chamber for a quick freshening up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As promised, dinner is a private affair.Caederyn once again fetches me from my chambers, but this time when we arrive at the room, Jasper, Fidelity, Clemence and even the guards fall back, all relegated to a separate chamber for their own meal, while Caederyn, Feon and myself dine privately with the king and queen.We aren’t eating in the formal banquet hall or even a private dining chamber as we did with Lady Emira, but rather in a sitting room, also on the third floor, I suspect in the proximity of the king and queen’s own quarters. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s startlingly informal and I draw up short when I first see it: a modestly sized room, all its plush furnishings placed so that the cheerily lit fireplace at the back wall is central to its arrangement.Above the mantle sits a large painting, framed in gold: the king and queen, but younger, perhaps slightly older than I am now; the king stands tall and proud, with all the confidence of a lion, and even through the canvas there’s something fiery about his eyes; beside him, the queen stands, steady and poised, her hands clasped before herself, a faint smile on her lips.Painted at the king’s other side is a man, with fair skin and pale golden hair that tumbles down his back in gentle waves interspersed with braids; his chin is lifted proudly, the hint of a smile on his full lips, a sort of elegant serenity in his dark eyes.Yuen, I think.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the sitting room is, of course, beautifully furnished, all pale cream walls and dark wood furniture with golden accents.Throughout the parlor, many beautiful things are displayed, but though they are arranged neatly, they seem to be more a fixture of the room as a whole rather than items that have been put out for display.On either side of the hearth sits mounted a beautiful sword of gold and pearl, each displayed vertically, their points thrust down towards the floor.There are works of glass and clay, small statues, beautifully embroidered tapestries, each skillfully and lovingly made.There is a care to the arrangement, a respect, as if each item is important.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Somehow, it feels amiss.There is an intimacy to the room.Despite its beauty, despite the finely crafted furniture, it is evident still that this was a room made for comfort, a room meant for private moments and quiet evenings.It’s not as if I’ve never taken a meal in a sitting room, but for the night of my arrival, particularly my first meeting with the queen… I find myself feeling distinctly wrong footed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Queen Lienna sits in the couch closest to the fire, dressed simply in a high necked, long sleeved black top with a saree in orange, goldenrod, and cream wrapped about her shoulder and waist, a thick velvet shawl on her other shoulder, her black hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck.The king sits on the couch beside her, one hand on her knee, her hand resting gently atop his.Caederyn leads me into the room, steering me with a hand at the small of my back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Father,” Caederyn says, and nods to the king.He turns to the queen, then.“Mother, this is Princess Allene of Voswain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My soon to be daughter,” she replies, warmth in her smile.Her voice is soft, each word spoken carefully.“How I’ve wished to meet you.”She squeezes the king’s hand without looking at him and says, “Dear, if you would…”The king stands and helps the queen to her feet.When she stands, her posture is impeccable, but there is a fragility to her, like a trembling leaf ready to be ripped free by the wind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” I say, deciding to focus my smile primarily upon Queen Lienna, as the king is rather terrifying, even to me.“And to see you once more, Your Majesty,” I amend quickly, glancing his way.If the king minds, he does not show it.His face, as ever, is about as telling as a brick wall.Queen Lienna beams at me, her warmth gentle like a candle’s flame, her face lined from a life lived smiling.She leans in to take my hands and presses a kiss to either of my cheeks; when she does so, I have to bend to meet her.King Rynnwald stands at her side, his hand ever present at her shoulder, steadying her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, Caederyn reaches forward and clasps hands with his father.It strikes me, then, just how similar they look: for all that Caederyn is younger and that he is somewhat paler, his skin a warmer tone, they share the same proud features, the same dark hair, the same short, neatly trimmed beard, and they stand at nearly the same height, though Caederyn is just slightly taller.Caederyn doesn’t bear his father’s crooked nose, once broken and then set incorrectly, or the old scar that is slashed across his face from cheek to cheek, and he lacks whatever history made the king such a grim, unyielding force, but I see it all the same.And though Caederyn’s dark waves fall freely to his chin and the king has his long hair bound loosely at his neck, I remember that the last time I saw Caederyn before our betrothal, perhaps a year prior, his hair was cropped short to his skull and his face was clean-shaven.Certainly, their shared blood plays no small part in their resemblance — but I see now that an amount of it has been cultivated, and only on one side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn steps aside and I shift, allowing him to take my place in front of the queen so that he may pull her into a gentle embrace.The king glances my direction, and I’m just opening my mouth to greet him more properly, when Feon intercedes, stepping into King Rynnwald’s space and, without hesitation, pulling him into a hug, his arms wrapping about the king’s middle, face pressed to his chest.I startle back and have to actively prevent myself from gawking, for the king does not instantly rebuff Feon’s affection as I expect.I watch with alarm as King Rynnwald, a man whom I have never once seen smile, who terrifies even the most stalwart of Voswainian courtiers, gently moves his free hand to pat Feon’s head.He’s not smiling, precisely, but there is a softness in his eyes that I find immensely disconcerting, as if I’ve returned home and found that my mother, the venerable queen, has suddenly decided to take up yodeling.For his part, Feon looks perfectly content, his face gone all mellow and serene.I swear if it had gone on a moment longer, he would have begun to purr.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king looks up and gently pushes Feon away so that he can shake my hand as well.“Welcome,” he says calmly.The king matches his wife for simplicity: he wears a dark tunic belted with a burnished gold sash and pants that fall loose around his legs, but gather tightly at the ankles.He is a striking figure and seeing how much Caederyn already resembles him, I feel confident that my prince will himself age quite handsomely.The king even smells good — like cinnamon and cloves and something else, almost like honey. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I reply, feeling as if this whole meeting has been orchestrated specifically to put me off pace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon remains at the king’s side, looking pleased and a little sleepy.As I watch him, he yawns widely, barely bothering to cover it with a hand.Caederyn helps his mother to sit and when the king joins her, Caederyn and I take our own couch facing theirs, a low table sitting between us.Feon settles in last, and instead of taking the armchair opposite the fire, which is clearly meant for him, he sinks to the floor and sits at the king’s foot, his back to the couch’s arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn shares none of Feon’s ease.He sits next to me, straight-backed and rigid, the picture of a perfect prince.We are, the both of us, dressed much more formally than his parents.I know my excuse — I knew tonight would be a quiet evening, but had not realized just how informal the setting would be.But I think Caederyn must have known and I wonder sadly if he is hoping to impress his parents — or, more specifically, his father.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A servant enters with wet towels and we cleanse our hands before another servant enters to pile the table high with an array of breads and cheeses and fruits and other small bites.“I hear you have already received the first of your wedding gifts,” the king says, leaning forward to assemble a small plate of charcuterie.He sets it upon the knee closest to his wife and holds it patiently for her as she selects from it an apple slice topped with cheese.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Caederyn says.“We had some… difficulties during our travels.”He leans in and begins to assemble his own plate.“We were ambushed on what should have been our last day in Ogren.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The queen lets out a small gasp, hands clasping over her chest.“Oh, my dear…” she says, heartfelt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We persevered, but we lost Mikhail and Sir Lonan.”Caederyn passes his plate to me and I take it, wondering if he’s trying to copy his parents’ strange, easy intimacy.Before tonight I’d had many ideas of how the queen might be, all of them extrapolated, of course, from my impression of the king.The reality of her and the very real affection between the two of them is utterly incongruous with my imaginings.“There were twelve men, all dressed unremarkably, and a beast.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A manticore,” I supply.The king looks sharply at me when he hears that, clearly at least somewhat familiar with the creature.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The beast was half starved to death and had clearly been kept in captivity for some time.And the men — they were trained somewhat, but not extensively, and we couldn’t find anything by which to identify them,” Caederyn continues.He rummages at his side and then draws a blade free from the leather frog at his belt.“Just this.”He holds out the dagger that was once plunged into his thigh, its silver metal glinting wickedly in the light of the candle chandelier above us, its red-black pommel reflecting the hot red glow from the fireplace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn rises to hand the blade pommel first to his father, who examines it curiously, turning it over in his hands.There is such an intensity in the king’s gaze that I nearly fear for the dagger, as if silent, repressed fury were enough to shatter it to dust.King Rynnwald raises a hand and a valet, who I hadn’t noticed previously, steps from his place standing silently beside the door to approach him.“Fetch my spectacles.You know the ones.”The man bows and exits.The king looks up at me, then, and says, “You’ll have to forgive my rudeness for a few minutes; extenuating circumstances.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” I reply quickly.“I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The valet returns, a small black case in his hands, and I watch with interest as the king opens it and draws out a pair of thin, golden framed spectacles with a series of movable lenses affixed to each eye.He studies the dagger carefully for several minutes, pushing the additional lenses in place one by one; each time he does, his brow furrows more deeply.Caederyn watches his father tensely, lips drawn and tight.Feon, for his part, barely seems to notice.He leans forward to take a slice of bread directly from the charcuterie board and has piled it high with spread and cheese, without even a plate to rest it upon.I watch, bemused, as he eats several olives, two grapes, and a dried fig, entirely unaware of the tension in the room around him.He munches quietly, so blissfully dazed he nearly looks sedated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king sighs and removes his glasses and places them back in the case, which the valet receives quickly before leaving again.King Rynnwald raises a hand to pinch the skin between his brows, a mannerism I’ve seen Caederyn perform many times. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Unfortunately I can discern no maker’s mark, nor a means to dismantle the blade for further inspection.”He stares down at the dagger, fingers tight on the black grip.“I’ll have the master blacksmith look at it,” he continues, disappointment caught in the thinning of his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If I may,” I interject, feeling more nervous than I’d like to admit.“I would like to examine it, if that is amenable.It is a blade with some magic to it and while I was unequipped to properly study it while traveling, I think, if I were to have the proper means, that I might be able to discern something of its nature.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’d thought about it on the road and had even been tempted to bring it up to Caederyn, but I’d been so frazzled after the ambush and then we’d been so busy…Besides, after the revelation of the nature of Feon’s shiftweave, I hadn’t wanted to attempt another identification with substandard accommodations, or with Feon’s reproachful gaze upon me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I — I’ve never had an attempt on my life prior to this,” I continue, gripping my plate tightly between my hands.“I would very much like to see those who orchestrated the attack brought to justice and I’d — I’d like to play a part in that, if I am able.”I can hear my voice tremble slightly, but I keep my face resolute.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king looks surprised at my request, though not displeased.He is silent for a moment, his face thoughtful, and then he says, “That would be appreciated.I’ll have it sent your way after the blacksmith gives it a look over.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, then, and nod, feeling some measure of tension melt from my body.Caederyn glances sideways towards me and then moves one of his hands atop my own and squeezes it gently.Before he can take his hand away, I move to grasp it with my own, twining our fingers together, palm to palm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After that, dinner is rather less exciting.Our conversation contains nothing much more important or interesting than news of my mothers’ latest soirees or the most recent eccentricities of Helion’s artistic community and is interspersed only by the occasional intrusion of one servant or another progressing the course of dinner from finger foods to a delicious, warming stew, the sort that is innately comforting to the soul. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At some point I catch Caederyn’s eyes fixed on a spot before us and follow his gaze to find Feon peacefully dozing where he sits on the floor, his head resting gently against the king’s knee.His sovereign doesn’t seem to mind.Caederyn, however, can’t seem to look anywhere else.He tries, I can tell.He speaks of our travels, of parties and parades and strange things we saw along the way, but his eyes are never far from Feon’s sleeping face and the way he rests so serenely at the king’s foot.Caederyn glances back at me, then, his dark eyes catching mine, and he stills.He doesn’t look at Feon again for the rest of our meal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It doesn’t last terribly long.Soon, the queen is looking unwell, her delicate face drawn with exhaustion.“You’ll have to forgive our rudeness again,” she says, her voice thin and weak.“I think I must retire for the evening.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I set my bowl aside and stand, Caederyn following quickly behind me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There is nothing to forgive,” I say earnestly.I kneel before her and this time it is I who take her hands in my own.“It was very lovely to meet you, Your Majesty.Thank you for trusting me with your son.He is so truly special.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, she smiles, and I think I see a hint of tears in her dark eyes.“I am glad you see it.And I am so happy to welcome you to our family.”She leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to my brow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand, feeling rather suddenly overwhelmed by emotion.I turn, give Caederyn a smile, and then my eyes fall upon the king, who is wearing such an expression of abject tenderness that it roots me to the spot.It’s the barest, faintest of smiles that he wears, but in it is a real and earnest devotion.We say our goodnights and Caederyn hugs his mother in parting and takes my arm to lead me from the sitting room.When we cross the threshold I realize that Feon is not with us, and I glance back to see the king rousing him gently, his hand on the dragon’s shoulder.Feon blinks up at him blearily and yawns again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene?” Caederyn asks, my stillness forcing him to stop beside me.“Is something the matter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t Feon coming with us?” I ask curiously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t think so, no,” he replies.At his tone, I look back at him sharply, and watch as his expression turns stony.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just the two of us, then,” I say.“I don’t mind.I feel as if we haven’t truly been alone together since… well, ever, probably.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He startles at that and then quickly composes himself.“If you’d allow me to take you to your rooms…” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would love nothing more,” I reply, smiling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Arm in arm we walk down the long hallway, taking enough turns that I am soon thoroughly lost.For his part, my prince seems to have no trouble navigating the halls.Perhaps I’ll have to ask for a map later, I’d hate to be reliant on others to find my way in my new home. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It bothers you,” I say quietly.“The way your father is with Feon.”Caederyn’s arm is a warm pressure against my own, our footfalls loud in the quiet around us.It takes him some time to assemble his answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m his son,” he says finally.“It is not unreasonable for him to have different expectations for me.”We take another left and I think as we pass it that I remember seeing that painting of three dogs on the way to dinner earlier, but I’m not certain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At his words, I frown.“And it is not unreasonable for him to show you some measure of affection, the way he does Feon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stiffens and his pace quickens.“He acts as he thinks is best,” he replies, stilted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps,” I say, “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine,” he says tersely, looking anything but.“And I’d appreciate it if you would let it be, as this is a family matter.”He won’t look at me.Where my arm rests atop his, I can feel his tension, muscles taut with repressed emotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will be your family, soon, Caederyn, unless you have forgotten or have decided otherwise,” I reply, perhaps somewhat more heatedly than I should.I doubt he meant his words as a barb, but they hurt all the same.“You can’t shut me out for, what— caring about you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His arm slips from mine and he thrusts his hands into his pockets.We walk briskly down the hall and I have to pick up my skirts to keep up with him.“I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, voice tight, “But I can’t— you can’t just—”Air hisses from betwixt his clenched teeth.He seems lost, somehow, unable to put his pain to words.Silence stretches between us until we round the next corner.“It is not an avenue of thought I wish to pursue.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stops, then, quite suddenly, and I recognize the door to my chambers — or, rather, the distinctly memorable painting that hangs opposite them.It’s a large piece, rendered more in shadow than in light, with gold leaf applied to select portions of its surface.It depicts a scene of a fierce, dark-haired woman in full armor, a resplendent crown atop her head, which is held high and proud.She rides on the back of a beautiful golden dragon, the point of her gilt spear thrust through the remaining eye of a colossal, spine-backed serpent that is the stuff of nightmares.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stop before him, a little short of breath.Caederyn looks down at me, his chin held high and defiant, and I realize that while Feon may be the more obviously intractable of the two, Caederyn has his own stubbornness as well.I step close to him and bring my hands to either side of his face and then press my forehead to his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wishing I could instill within those words all the sympathy of my tempestuous heart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands before me, his breath mingling with mine, and, slowly, the tension bleeds from his body.His shoulders slump and he brings his hands out of his pockets to rest upon my own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” he replies, breathing more evenly now.“For your kindness.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I open my eyes to find him looking back at me.He’s tired, I can tell — tired and hurt and so many other things.My thumb moves to his chin and then, gently, slides against the curve of his lower lip.I feel the slight gust as he exhales, his eyes fixed downwards upon my finger, breath catching in his chest.And then I lean up and kiss him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His lips are firm and warm and slightly chapped.After a moment of stillness (I suspect due to his surprise), he returns the kiss, his lips moving intently but cautiously, as if afraid I might rescind my affection just as easily as I gave it.I resolve, then, to prove his fears false.If I am ever to decide there is no love for him in my heart, there will be warning, and it will be no secret.I hope silently that that day never arrives, but love is a fickle beast and must be given freely or not at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hands slide from his cheeks to the back of his head, twining through the gentle waves of his hair.It’s soft — softer than I’d thought it would be, sliding easily between my fingers.His hands hover uncertainly in the air for a moment before they settle at my waist.I wonder, absently, just how much experience Caederyn has to be acting thusly.Is he yet untried in the mechanics of lust?Or do I simply make him nervous?I can feel his breath coming in quick and shallow against my face and imagine the way his heart must be pounding in his chest.Smiling, I lick at the valley of his lips until he opens for me, pleased when I feel him still as if I’ve punched the breath right out of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn kisses with wonder, gentle and searching, as if unable to believe this moment is real.I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, letting my teeth graze the tender flesh.His breath is warm in my mouth, his hands firm at my waist as he clings to me, hot and yielding, his mouth growing insistent against mine, his tongue finally daring to make its presence known.I press him back until I have him up against the wall, my hands fisted in his hair, my breasts shoved against his firm chest, and I grin as he releases a short, surprised breath.I can feel the heat of him through our clothes, feel the steady climb of his desire in the way he holds on to me, desperation in the tension of his grip.Using my hold on his hair, I tug him down to my level, angling my head so I can most thoroughly devour him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we finally break apart, we are both breathing a little heavily, and his face is flushed, his reddened lips parted and slick with spit.He looks distinctly ravished, his usual composure split at the seams as he stares down at me, enraptured, hair once neat falling messily into his rosy face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight, my prince.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin and lean up towards him, crowding him into the wall once again so I can press a small, chaste kiss to his mouth.He makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, barely audible, and I wonder if he would still be standing, were I not holding him to the wall.Deciding to test my theory, I relinquish my grip on his hair and step back, letting his hands fall from my waist.He blinks back at me dumbly, mouth open, chest heaving, and swallows thickly.I watch the way his gaze tracks my eyes, my lips, my neck, my breasts…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight,” he breathes, barely able to manage the words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll see you tomorrow, Caed.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nods mutely and watches as I turn and walk the rest of the way to my door, feeling quite thoroughly pleased with myself.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I settle into life in Pyrehart Palace as quickly as I am able.Primarily, it is exciting — I’ve always enjoyed the thrill of throwing myself headfirst into something fresh and new and there is no shortage of novelties for me to discover in Nadara — but at the edge of everything there is a roughness, a splinter that catches at the weave of my thoughts and unravels me.While directing servants in how best to arrange my belongings in my new quarters, I’ll find myself thinking longingly of my rooms at home, of my bed and my work table and my private library, how through years of living there I had carefully put them in order to best suit my needs.The moment I realize anew that Voswain is no longer my home — that this strange palace with its labyrinthine halls and colored windows is my new home — my heart stutters and I feel a momentary vertigo.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I may be brunching with the young Nadaran women of esteem, holding court in my private dining chamber or out in a courtyard or in a sitting room, and I’ll find myself wistfully missing Voswainian fashion and conversation.We Voswainians favor a dramatic silhouette: large sleeves, fitted waists, and full skirts, and all of it embellished with abandon and, often, with magic.Nadarans prefer a sleeker look: long, dress-like jackets over trousers, most often tailored close to the body, or a saree wrapped tightly over a simple blouse and petticoat; even the most flared of their skirts is no fuller than what I might wear for travel or casual lounging. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Here, it is common for people of any gender to dress in tunics.While it is not unheard of for Voswainians to dress across gender lines, it is much rarer than in Nadara and, now that I think upon it, I realize that Voswain lacks for an implicitly non-gendered garment.Regardless of my thoughts on that matter, it’s difficult not to feel out of place and profoundly overdressed here because for all that Nadarans have a taste for beautiful beaded embroidery and bright colors, their fashion lacks the inherent drama and pageantry to which I am accustomed — or “princess bullshit,” as my brother Cassidy calls it.I feel myself a lone blooming rose adrift in a sea of tulips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even thinking that makes me feel a bit ridiculous, and only in part because I am not truly alone.I don’t know how I would manage this transition without Clemence and Fidelity by my side, there to infiltrate this new court with sweet smiles and spicy gossip.That, at least, is a taste that does not wane across borders.The nobles here are nearly as temperate and restrained as I feared, but are thankfully less so than Caederyn or his father.Ingratiating myself to my new community is near like learning a new language and for all that I am fluent in Nadaran, I am no better than a foundling with regards to its social customs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn knows this, I think, and he has kindly made himself readily available to me.We spend most days together and I do appreciate his company, but I miss the privacy of our shared coach — and of our brief moment alone together after dinner.There has been no more of that since and he is different amongst his people, somehow even less emotionally present than before, his heart steadfastly locked behind the caution in his eyes and the tension in his jaw.I find, in some ways, that it is easier for me to assimilate when we are not together, as his presence inspires deference rather than fondness. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The court, of course, does have affection for their prince — I see the way many a young courtier’s eye tracks his movements with a sort of hopeless, quiet hunger.I wonder what it must be like, to have grown up in court under King Rynnwald’s burdensome solemnity, to spend years pining silently for a beautifully somber prince, who, as far as I can tell, has either taken only the most discrete of lovers or none at all — and then to see him betrothed to a complete outsider.I think, perhaps, I have a steeper climb ahead of me than I had anticipated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon, strangely enough, seems to be entirely beloved.For all that he is short-tempered and frequently rude and shows absolutely no concern for Nadaran decorum, everyone treats him with such unyielding fondness that I often feel the prick of envy’s bitter thorn.Perhaps even more infuriating is that Feon seems to be the only cure for the court’s rigid manners.He loosens them up, makes them blush and laugh and argue and flirt and even when he is sitting across from me, disagreeing with my every statement, making uncouth faces, and hissing his vitriol, it’s as if even his ire is benefaction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Seemingly, all I need to garner sympathy from Nadaran nobility is to be at the wrong end of Feon’s scorn.I think they must see it as some form of hazing, for the morning after Feon laughs openly in my face over tea and calls me a “superficial, condescending blowhard,” I am invited to a private luncheon with Lady Cicely, who, I gather, was prior to my arrival top of the social pecking order beneath Caederyn and Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nearly understand it.I remember how, before my betrothal to his prince, Feon seemed an eccentric but ultimately benign creature.I was charmed by his strangeness, by his flagrant disregard for any sort of propriety (Nadaran or otherwise), by his wild glee and his innate otherness.I think I found it romantic — the notion of a dragon among us, fierce and untamable and beautiful.And that he has always been pretty— well, that certainly didn’t hurt.I did not then know what it truly meant for him to be a dragon — had not seen him transformed since we were children, and certainly had never seen him in a full rage, his massive chest heaving, all black gore and golden scales, his body reeking of blood and death.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even now, despite what I have seen and how he has treated me, I think I am somewhat taken with him, though I find that fact incredibly annoying.I think it would be easier to hate him if I didn’t see the goodness within him, his fierce and protective love for Caederyn, his shameless defiance of what he calls “human eccentricity.”I pointed out to him once that, having been raised by humans for the past two decades or so, culturally he is more human than dragon, and I nearly found his bluster charming.At any rate, it did seem to raise me in the estimation of those dining with us that evening.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, I know I likely have years ahead of me before I will be properly accepted into Nadaran court.I don’t think they will dare to openly scorn me, but I have no illusions as to my true welcome.Late one night after a dinner that turned into dessert that turned into drinks, I am feeling a little tipsy and perhaps somewhat over confident.I am at the end of a long corridor, walking alone, having allowed Fidelity to leave us early (the poor girl has been struggling valiantly through a cold) and then dismissing Clemence with a wink (after seeing the way her eyes kept wandering longingly towards Captain Elske).I had, earlier that week, asked for and been granted a map of the palace and so I now stubbornly wave aside any servant intent on assisting me to my rooms, set on finding my way back myself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I begin to ascend a set of narrow, winding stairs before something catches my ear: a set of soft footsteps behind me, likely someone else heading to the third floor.I stop at the next landing to check my map again and, to my surprise, no one emerges from the stairs behind me.I notice as well that the footsteps have stopped and I wonder if whoever they belong to has halted as well or if I’ve imagined them all together.Frowning, I put the map back in my pocket and continue on my way.Not ten steps down the hall, I hear it again: footsteps, behind me, difficult to hear over the rustling of my skirts.I curse my adherence to Voswainian fashion, knowing that I’d be much quieter had I adopted the Nadaran tunic and trousers.I resolve, then and there, to go shopping soon and to integrate their style into my wardrobe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tipsy as I am, I begin to think so furiously about how I can mix the two fashions together that I almost don’t realize that the footsteps have stopped with me once again.I turn and frown with frustration. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello?” I call out with annoyance, certain that a servant is following behind me, making certain I do not end up terribly lost.“If you’ve come to prevent me from loosing my way, I can ensure you that failure is a necessary part of the process and that I would very much like you to leave me <em>alone.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wait a moment for an answer, but none comes.I reason then that of course they would not answer me — propriety would not allow it.If they admit to following me they would have to own up to disobeying their future queen, which would be dreadfully shameful.Satisfied that I’ve made my point, I continue down the corridor, doing my best to infuse my stride with purpose and only wobbling <em>slightly</em> as I do so.But as I turn the next corner, I hear it again: footsteps.I whirl around, irate, my skirts billowing about me, intent upon catching this meddlesome servant out, and see—</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nothing.Just an empty corridor before me.Oh, all the usual doors and paintings and whatever else are there, of course, but there is no other person in sight.I feel, then, the first gripping of fear upon my heart.Without checking my map, I plunge on ahead, hoping to lose them.It’s a foolish notion — what with the weight and noise of my many skirts, there is no hope for me to outpace my pursuer.I see another set of stairs and take it down, two steps at a time, my skirts clutched in my hands, my heart thudding wildly.If I am to be caught, then I must do my best not to have it happen in private, where no one might bear witness, and I know there is a far better chance to stumble into other people on the ground floor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Behind me, the footfalls grow louder, and I can tell my pursuer is keeping pace with me,but for the winding nature of the staircase and the panic in my heart, I cannot catch a glimpse of them, though I desperately try.I slip, then, distracted in my efforts to glance behind me, and have to press myself into the wall beside me, my heart hammering, my mind blazing with panic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What feels like an eternity later, I burst from the staircase out into a busy hallway, my face flushed, skirts held up in my hands, my chest heaving and hair a mess.Several servants, who I think were in the process of cleaning, stop dead in their tracks to stare at me, wide-eyed.No longer can I hear the sound of footsteps behind me, though I am uncertain if that is because my pursuer knows I am no longer alone or because the hammering of my pulse is too loud in my ears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would one of you kindly fetch a guard to escort me to my chambers?” I say finally, trying for some measure of decorum.A young woman with frizzy hair trying desperately to escape her bun nods quickly and scurries away.Not long after, she returns, Sir Sieglinde in tow beside her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is everything alright, Your Grace?” she asks, and never have I been more happy to see her round, sunburnt face than I am right now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not certain,” I reply.“I think I’d like to speak with Caederyn and the captain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods at that and sends that same servant girl away to fetch them.“I’ll accompany you to your chambers,” Sir Sieglinde says kindly, and holds out her arm.Shaking slightly, I take it, grateful for the solid mass of her beside me.There is nothing much more reassuring in a time of trouble than to cling to the arm of a woman who is more mountain than human and whom you know, from experience, to be kind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, in my chambers, we convene.When I speak of my experience, Caederyn and his guards all looked troubled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think,” Caederyn begins carefully.“That we should assign you a guard.I haven’t yet had time to find a good candidate to fill out mine, else I’d suggest the new recruit for the job…”His brow furrows.I know his words are a lie — that he has met with a number of dedicated guardsmen and put them through their paces, even sparring against them himself.There <em>has</em> been time, near a week at this point — I think he has just been reluctant to replace Sir Lonan.He turns to Sir Sieglinde.“Sieglinde, would you be willing, if I asked?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She seems to consider it for a moment before her ruddy face breaks out into a wide smile.“I’d love to, if she’ll have me.”They both turn to look at me, then.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But Caederyn, she’s part of <em>your</em> guard,” I say, affection swelling within me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And therefore I know she will protect you well,” he replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you’re already one short and I—” I protest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” Caederyn says firmly.“You should have long since had protection of your own.I am livid with myself for not insisting on you bringing a guard of your own from Voswain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bite my lip.“I never had much need of one before…” I say quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He cups one of my hands betwixt his own and looks at me intently, his brown eyes earnest in their concern.“Please do this.For me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed…” I croak, my voice gone stupid and wobbly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you know, but Feon is perfectly capable of protecting me,” he reasons.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As if summoned by mention of his name, Feon bursts through the door, then, without even knocking.His face is flushed and his brow is sweaty and I think he must have run here.That thought strikes a tenderness into my heart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened?” he asks, flopping down in an open armchair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Someone followed Allene.I am putting Sieglinde in charge of her safety henceforth,” Caederyn says with finality.I sigh and then squeeze his hand, both touched by his kindness and frustrated by his overriding of my choice.I know he only does it to protect me, but this disregard for my autonomy chafes — even if, perhaps, there are times when I <em>should </em>have listened to him before.“I’ll need you at the training grounds early in the morning,” Caederyn continues.“So we can test the mettle of our prospects.I’d like to add another two to both mine and Allene’s guards.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shrugs.“Sure, I’d love to scare the shit out of some assholes in armor.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you might notice the final chapter count changing every now and then! there's two reasons for this:</p><p>1. even though i have everything outlined pretty extensively, sometimes a scene that is two paragraphs in my outline turns into 10k words and sometimes i decide to do things like change the POV a certain scene is told from (nausea was originally meant to be from feon's POV, very glad i changed that)<br/>2. i can't fucking count</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. New Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The morning after Allene was followed, the sky is dreary and gray.It’s the sort of sky that threatens rain for hours but never makes good on it.The air is heavy with the smell of it, a dense, suffocating scent that has all the moisture of the wind just before rain but none of its sweetness.If it were summer, it would be muggy and my skin would be sticky with sweat until the sun burst through the overcast sky and burned the humidity away.This early in spring, it is chilly and damp and miserable.It’s the sort of day you’re meant to spend inside, whittling or reading or lazing about.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, we’re out on the training grounds with two dozen or so guards, recruits who were either recommended by Captain Elske or who themselves requested to be considered.Caederyn and I stand aside, watching as Sieglinde and the captain put the assembled guards through a number of drills, a trial of both memorization and endurance.The captain watches with a keen eye for any who show signs of faltering or not fully committing.Allene is here, too, sitting with Fidelity and Clemence in a pavilion off to one side.When she sees me glance her way, she waves, a cheery smile on her face.I turn away with a jerk and pointedly don’t look at her again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Soon, Captain Elske is walking amongst the recruits and sorting them into pairs.“It is not about winning or losing,” she says, her voice carrying clearly, “But about how well you fight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For now,” I mutter, amused.The recruits assemble around a large, circular patch of dirt where the grass has long since been worn away by the friction of violence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Captain,” one of the recruits calls.She’s older than most, perhaps in her mid thirties.Her thick mousy brown hair is bound in untidy braids.“What is our aim?Touch?First blood?Incapacitation?And what tactics are we allowed?”A lazy smile twists her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske surveys the woman warily — sizing her up, I think.“I’m interested in seeing how you fight,” she says finally.“And how <em>hard</em> you fight.”There is a silence amongst the recruits, then.This is not a tournament; the only honor here is in proving one’s ability to serve and protect.“But do try not to seriously injure one another,” she adds, a hint of irritation in her voice.The braided woman grins wickedly.Even from a distance, she looks like trouble.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The first couple fights aren’t of much interest.The guards are competent, but not particularly notable.Caed gestures towards a man with greasy blonde hair who just sent his opponent limping away after a well timed thrust of the butt of his spear into the painful spot just above his opponent’s knee. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you think of him?” he asks, frowning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think Captain Elske is giving her better prospects a few minutes’ reprieve after running drills all morning,” I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Those not fighting are standing at the sidelines of the battleground, watching with varying degrees of interest as their fellows spar.Wolf Woman — as I’ve dubbed her in my head — isn’t paying the others much mind at all.She sits slouched in the grass, the only one not standing.Though she still holds her place near the end of the line, she is clearly bored by the proceedings.I wonder if she’s foolhardy or if she’s just that good.Judging by the fact that the captain is tolerating her behavior, I suspect the latter.I watch, bemused, as she rummages in a pouch at her belt and begins to snack, blithely indifferent to the reproachful glances and mutterings of her fellows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">About halfway through the proceedings, there is a fight that gives me some pause.Still distracted by Wolf Woman (who is now absently picking her nose with her pinky, a small book held open in her other hand), I don’t look back to the battleground until too late.A man lays on his back in the dirt, red-faced and groaning.His opponent stands over him and sheaths their weapons — a pair of long, wicked looking daggers.The victor is androgynous and surprisingly slight in stature, perhaps my height or shorter.They are dark skinned with blunt-chopped, chemically lightened yellow-orange hair that is still black at the roots.The lines of their uniform are preserved so meticulously a laundress would weep for joy.They hold out a hand and when the man grasps it in his own, they haul him up with ease.The two converse for a moment, too quiet to be heard from this distance, but soon the loser is smiling, almost bashful, and the two of them shake hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened?” I ask, my eyes tracking Daffodil (another nickname) as they resume their place in line.They look out of place amongst the other guards, who, apart from Wolf Woman, would otherwise likely appear calm and disciplined to my eyes.Daffodil is like a patch of perfect, serene stillness surrounded by rushes rustling restlessly in the breeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They overwhelmed their opponent with speed in close quarters before unbalancing him,” Caed replies, his eyes shrewd as he studies the recruit.“Poor man had no chance to recover.”In spite of his words, Caed doesn’t sound terribly sympathetic.More than anything, he sounds impressed.Daffodil, taking notice of our attention, turns towards us and immediately bends into a bow so sharp it could cut grass.Caed nods back in acknowledgement.“They’re one of the guards Em sent with us,” he continues.Another pair of contenders enters the ring of earth and they begin to spar.“I had assumed they’d all return to Helion once they saw us safely here, but…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug.“Maybe they took a liking to you,” I say, and snort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed rolls his eyes.“You know, you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good thing I think very highly of myself, then, and am likely still quite hilarious,” I reply smugly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s comfortable standing together like this.Without Allene glued to Caed’s side, it’s almost how it was before this mess began.We stand in companionable silence, watching as a score of humans fight for the honor of serving, and likely dying for, the crown.I’d find this human strangeness funny if I wasn’t similarly bound, and much more strongly besides.I know that if given the choice between self preservation and protecting Caed, I will choose his life over mine every time.The difference is there is no sense of honor or duty inspiring my devotion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The peace doesn’t last long.I hear a shriek from the right and bristle, my entire body tensing in anticipation of danger.Caed has his hand on his blade before I can even begin to shift.The band of recruits is spurred into action, hands flying to weapons, Captain Elske preparing to call orders.The latest match is halted immediately and all attention shifts to minding our safety.Then I see the source of the scream: Allene.She leaps up from her seat in the pavilion and beams with surprise and joy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lysithea!” she exclaims, pleased and shocked.“What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tension leaves me with a puff of unsatisfying air.Deflated, I turn and glower in the general direction of Allene and Lysithea, who both deserve my ire in this moment: Allene for her injudicious enthusiasm and Lysithea for her existence.Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Captain Elske instructing the guards to settle down and stand at ease.She does not look pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea strides across the grounds with all the blithe confidence of someone who knows they aren’t welcome and doesn’t give a shit.Infuriatingly, she’s hot as ever, her silver-white hair gleaming despite the overcast sky.She doesn’t address me or Caed, completely ignoring everyone save for Allene.She could merely be running into Allene in a shop for all that she acknowledges her surroundings. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m wounded you think I could miss a ball in your honor,” Lysithea answers, voice pitched to the key of mock betrayal.When she reaches the princess, Lysithea takes Allene’s hand and bends to kiss it.Allene laughs and waves Lysithea’s gallantry aside before reaching out and pulling her friend into a hug.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I did not expect to see you until the wedding!” Allene replies, clearly touched. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wanted it to be a <em>surprise,”</em> Lysithea says, a flirtatious lilt to her voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you may consider that a success,” Allene replies, laughing.“Come, sit with me, and tell me how you’ve been.”With how eager she is to see Lysithea, you’d think they’d been apart for more than the three weeks it has been since leaving Harrogate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, Caed shifts uncomfortably, unhappiness tying him to the spot.I know Allene did not anticipate Lysithea to arrive so soon.Caed, I think, did not expect her to come at all.It has been many years since the Ballards last traveled this far west.I think, with the exception of Allene, we would have all preferred to keep it that way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment of indecision during which I can clearly see him considering affording Lysithea as little attention as she has him, Caed makes up his mind and strides forward to join the two women.I sigh, watching.Though he struggles to be cordial, Caed wears an expression more suited to battle than to greeting an unwelcome visitor.My poor, dear price.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Ballard,” Caed says curtly as he reaches them.He shakes Lysithea’s hand when it is offered.I remain where I am, not wishing to be any closer to Lysithea than I have to be.I still remember what happened the last time I tried to make small talk with her.My favorite pair of trousers have the puncture marks to prove it.“Perhaps the two of you should adjourn to the palace together for an early lunch.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, there are extra chairs in the pavilion!We can have tea sent here,” Allene agrees, beaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps the greenhouse,” Caed counters.“It is still lovely, despite the weather.”Even standing with his back to me, I know the expression he wears: stiff and hard eyed, his lips drawn tightly into an unhappy line.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sounds confused.Clearly, she can tell Caed isn’t pleased, but doesn’t understand why.“That does sound lovely, but I think I would like to stay here, Caederyn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea snorts.“He doesn’t want me here while they’re — what are you doing?”She takes a look around, noting Captain Elske standing at ease, Sieglinde at her side, and a squadron of guards beyond them, some looking a little worse for wear.“Training in new guards?Sparring?”She gives a short, derisive, laugh.“As if I need to <em>see</em> any of them fight to thoroughly trounce them in the upcoming tournament.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“These proceedings are not meant to be open to the public,” Caed says unhappily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ll be fighting in the tournament?” Allene asks, too excited to pay Caed mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I couldn’t very well <em>not</em> fight in your honor.”Lysithea grins at Allene and then, pointedly ignoring Caed’s huff of distress, she takes Allene’s arm in her own and begins to lead her away from us and back towards the palace.Fidelity and Clemence follow in their wake.“I don’t mind,” Lysithea continues loftily.She speaks purposefully loudly so that her voice carries to us across the lawn.“Any excuse to get you alone.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed stands and watches them leave, his back to me, bitterness writ in the rigidity of his posture.Once the girls are out of sight, he shakes his head and returns to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wish I had known sooner that I could get rid of Lysithea by just throwing Allene at her,” I muse.I glance Caed’s way and grin.“And vice versa.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed just frowns at me for a moment and then, without addressing that, turns back towards the assembled guards and says, “You may resume.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske nods crisply and soon things are moving smoothly again.The aborted fight is quickly resumed and completed, though I find neither combatant particularly memorable.I think, soberly, that Lysithea may have a point.If we were to fight her, I don’t like our guards’ prospects.She’s a talented swordsman and adept, as deadly as she is unpleasant, and were she concerned about more than a mere tournament, I’d worry for them.Of course, she’d be nowhere near my equal.After all, she is only human — or at least, mostly human.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have to wait until the final bout to watch Wolf Woman fight.She’s matched up against a broad shouldered, heavily muscled man who towers over everyone save for Sieglinde, who is perhaps the tallest full blooded human I’ve ever met.Long sideburns tickle the recruit’s jawline.His straight brown hair is short and neatly parted on one side, where it then forms a stupid little swoop, like the world’s shittiest marble ramp.In my head, I instantly dub him Beefy Dumbass.Wolf Woman rises to her feet and stretches languidly before shoving her book into another guard’s chest.She doesn’t even bother to make sure he takes it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They couldn’t be an odder match up.Wolf Woman pads lazily over to the clearing, yawning into one hand while the other unsheathes her sword with as much ceremony as one might use to put on their trousers.Beefy Dumbass stands with his chest puffed out as he sizes her up scornfully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m at my best on horseback with a lance,” he says haughtily.I’ve heard one sentence out of him and I already want to punch him in the mouth.“So I’ll fight you by blade.”He draws his sword in a neat arc and faces her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever floats your goat, kid,” Wolf Woman replies, bored.She picks a large booger out of one nostril and flicks it aside.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beefy Dumbass makes an affronted sound and turns towards Captain Elske, his big mouth wide with scorn.“Captain!” he demands.“This ne’er-do-well is a shame to the uniform.Look at her!” he gestures emphatically at his opponent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then prove it in steel,” the captain replies, unamused.She looks — tired? Harangued? Resigned? — as she waves a hand toward the two soldiers and says, “Begin.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For all his bluster, Beefy Dumbass proceeds carefully.Perhaps it’s due to a lifetime spent honing his technique until it matches his blade for sharpness.Perhaps he’s just cottoned on to the captain’s intent.Captain Elske is not the sort of person who would match those uneven in skill — she wouldn’t see the point in it.There is no better way to test the mettle of a warrior than to pair them against someone of equal ability. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beefy Dumbass raises his sword warily.He falls into a stance that is textbook perfect, as if for years he has happily consumed every last morsel of combat training and then smugly demanded seconds.He looks like the sort of person who would pride himself on putting a straight edge to shame with his posture.Wolf Woman looks sloppy by comparison, the easy slope of her back more reminiscent of a back alley fighting ring or a tavern brawl rather than the strictly regimented castle training grounds.She holds her sword in two hands, one at the hilt and one partway down the blade.She looks so relaxed, so indifferent, that part of me suspects she’s doing it just to rile her opponent.I’d think her a fool if it weren’t for the sharpness in her eyes.I know now how to recognize the look of a predator in a woman.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beefy Dumbass makes the first approach.He thrusts his blade forward decisively, his lip curled in a disgust that is as pointed as the tip of his sword.Easy as anything, Wolf Woman deflects it with a two-handed guard, steering his blade askew.In the same fluid motion she lunges forward, the point of her sword angling towards the curve of his sternum.He parries this with the dagger in his left hand, just barely managing to interpose it between his chest and her blade. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The clash of skidding metal scrapes discordantly in the chill morning air.Beefy Dumbass throws his weight into his counter until Wolf Woman is forced to draw back.She drops her sword into a one-handed grip as her blade arcs outwards further than her reach can follow.Wolf Woman grins up at Beefy Dumbass then and turns her head to spit on the ground at her side.Beefy Dumbass snorts derisively and falls back into another annoyingly perfect stance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wolf Woman fights like a typhoon, wild and destructive and unpredictable, an implacable force of wrath and glee that eats up everything before it.I’ve watched before as a mountain lion hunted her quarry.I’ve seen the perfect mechanism of a hunter, the beauty of supple muscles working in concert beneath a gleaming hide as the lion plunges inexorably forward, teeth intent on drawing blood.Wolf Woman moves much the same way.She doesn’t fight pretty and she doesn’t fight fair, but damn if she doesn’t look incredible doing it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wolf Woman’s next thrust causes Beefy Dumbass to take an awkward step back as he hastens to raise his guard in time to meet her blade, a single fracture in his otherwise seamless form.She moves swiftly, taking full advantage of the moment, her braids whipping through the air.Wolf Woman steps in close and jabs an elbow hard into his gut.Beefy Dumbass doubles over, shock and rage overwriting his smugness.He lets out a choked, <em>“Guh!”</em> as all the air comes rushing out of him in one short, strangled gasp. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He recovers quickly and uses his new, lower vantage point to slice up sharply with his dagger.He glances a blow across Wolf Woman’s side, slicing through the red fabric of her tunic and revealing the glinting hauberk below.She darts back, quick and easy, a wild laugh on her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With every exchange, Beefy Dumbass seems to get increasingly frustrated as Wolf Woman’s glee soars.Lucky for him, even anger doesn’t seem to make him sloppy.I’d thought, at first, that he’d be the sort to freeze up and fall apart at the first hint of unexpected circumstances or that he’d be the sort to lose his head in rage.Now, I think, he must be the opposite: the type of person who has studied the manual so readily that is has become their life’s blood.Why bother thinking when you can eat, sleep, and breathe 951 different ways to move your stupid little sword? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beefy Dumbass moves with a decisive, brutal efficiency, wielding his blade with a strength that would easily crush a lesser opponent.It’s a battle fought by measures, not by bounds.They trade glancing blows and small jabs, each waiting for the other to slip up, to make just one mistake that can be leveraged to victory.As a spectator, it’s simultaneously thrilling and infuriating.As a dragon, it seems both incredibly tedious and pointless.When it comes down to it, I’ll be the one protecting Caed.The guards are not much more than pretty ornaments with personality.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Having grown bored, I look away, trying to find something else to interest myself with.I almost don’t catch it when Wolf Woman slips up.Captain Elske watches with rapt attention, her expression stony as ever save for the tension in her neck as it bears the weight of her head.Sieglinde watches the fight with wide eyes.I think she’s about five seconds shy of literally biting her nails.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then there’s a sharp <em>clang</em> and I jerk my attention back towards the action just in time to watch as Beefy Dumbass traps Wolf Woman’s blade in a counter between both sword and dagger.He gives a harsh jerk that twists her arm, forcing it to its limit.In a choice between keeping her blade or suffering injury, she chooses herself.Her sword falls to the dirt with an underwhelming <em>thump.</em>Beefy Dumbass breaks out into an irritating grin, arms falling to his sides, already halfway through a pivot that would bring him to face the captain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t notice Wolf Woman surging towards him, quick as lightning and just as brutal.Her arm snaps up and the butt of her hand meets his face with a sickening crack.Beefy Dumbass reels backwards, bright red blood streaming from his nose.His expression is delicious: shocked to a comical degree, like a baby who’s just had their first run in with peekaboo.Wolf Woman kicks a leg behind Beefy Dumbass’ calf and upends him without fuss.When he falls, little droplets of blood go flying through the air before him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, that’s enough.Wrap it up,” the captain says, stepping onto the battleground to intercede.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beefy Dumbass is already back on his feet, one hand clutching a handkerchief to his bloody nose, the other closed on the hilt of his sword.Furious, he heads immediately towards a yawning Wolf Woman.The captain steps between them, halting him mid-step with a firm hand on his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop,” she says, her tone brokering no room for refusal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, he persists.“Zhe broge by doze!Zhe <em>broge </em>by doze!” he yells, his voice congested with blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can do more than that if you’d like,” Wolf Woman answers.She grins back at Beefy Dumbass, her eyes half-lidded and lazy.He lets out a strangled cry of rage and attempts to bypass the captain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brennard Gaebel,” Captain Elske says.This time she sounds angry.Beefy Dumbass — or, rather, Brennard Gaebel — freezes and immediately straightens to attention, his eyes wide, fist clutched tightly about his hanky.“Connor Gladhill.”On the captain’s other side, Wolf Woman halts mid-laugh stands marginally straighter.She still looks unrepentant, but she seems to no longer be actively relishing in her opponent’s pain.“I cannot begin to tell either of you just how much you have tried my patience today.”At this, Brennard sputters, shocked that <em>he </em>has drawn her ire.The captain shoots him a quelling look that could make a rock piss itself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a protracted, uncomfortable silence, she continues.“I’m going to have a long deliberation about whether either of you are even remotely fit to remain in the Nadaran guard,” she says tersely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brennard looks like he’s just been punched in the gut — again.He’s frozen, ashen faced, his mouth shriveled into a pucker.He doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s dropped his hanky to the dirt at his feet and his nose is bleeding freely once again.Connor, on the other hand, relaxes and rolls her eyes behind the captain’s back.She notices my gaze upon her and, meeting my eyes, she mimes a quick gagging motion.I stifle a laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…After which I will consider the assignments to the prince and princess’ personal guards,” the captain concludes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She turns then and surveys the company as a whole and not a one of them manage to look unintimidated — save for Daffodil.“Hazley Reddinger,” Captain Elske says finally, her eyes resting on the blond guard’s face.“You’re hired.”They give another curt bow and the captain turns on her heel and quits the scene decisively, leaving Sieglinde in charge to clean up the mess.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, then,” Sieglinde says, her face even redder than usual.“It’s been quite a morning, hasn’t it?”She fumbles in her pocket and retrieves a clumsily hand-sewn handkerchief, which she offers to Brennard.He takes it silently and uses it to stymie the blood flow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“First off, congratulations to — Hazley, was it?”Sieglinde beams at the aforementioned guard, who offers a small, quiet smile in return.“Now, let’s all begin our cool down.We can’t be having any stiff limbs or cramps here, no!”She laughs uneasily at her own non-joke, awkward in the face of this modest disaster.“Brennard, if you’d like, you can go to the infirmary.Get a look at that nose, yeah?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brennard shakes his head mutely and follows along as Sieglinde begins to lead the troop in final stretches, one hand holding the hanky to his nose as he drops into a deep lunge.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn towards Caed.“Want to get lunch?” I ask.He nods and joins me and together we walk companionably back towards the palace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What did you think?” he asks again once we’re halfway across the lawn and he’s certain our voices won’t carry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I absolutely hate Beefy— Brenn— whatever his name is,” I answer immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed quicks his brow in amusement.“What were you going to call him?” he asks, lips pressed together to stifle a laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Beefy Dumbass.I didn’t know any of their names at first, so I… improvised,” I reply, only slightly embarrassed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.What were the others?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wolf Woman for — you know.”I don’t need to elaborate.Caed just nods again.“And Daffodil, for the bleach blonde.The other ones weren’t interesting enough to merit nicknames.”A servant holds the door open for us and we pass into the palace halls, where our shoes clack loudly on the tile floor.After so long spent standing on soft grass it’s a bit jarring.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I recognized Brennard immediately,” Caed says as we enter the stairwell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s a guard here, then?” I ask, not terribly interested.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, transferred relatively recently I think.But, more important, I think he is some relation of the captain’s,” Caed says blandly, as if he has not just given me this wonderful gift unbidden.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” I demand, stopping immediately to swivel in place and face him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Her nephew, I think,” Caed continues, now sounding amused.“You heard the surname, did you not?Gaebel.It is not a common name.I think I remember something about his arrival a year or so ago…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, I let out a bark of laughter.“No wonder she hates him so much!” I cry.“Oh, sparks and flame, I may even be able to tolerate him now.Just knowing how much she absolutely hates him — this is <em>hilarious.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed stands, turned slightly towards me, his expression torn between exasperation and amusement.Eventually, amusement wins out.He breaks down into a quiet chuckle.Heaving a sigh, he shakes his head and then continues up the stairs.“You are a being of ruin,” he says wonderingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And yet you love me,” I say, unthinking, lulled into a false ease.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed freezes midstep, just for a moment.Tension sprouts between us as easily as summer weeds.He puts his foot down with a determined finality, his face hidden by a curtain of dark hair.My insides quake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we reach the top of the stairs, he stops again.Still not looking at me, he says, “I do love you, Feon.”His voice is soft.I’d almost think it kind if he weren’t taking a sledgehammer to the only part of me that is soft and vulnerable.I suck in a sharp breath but before I can speak he continues.“I just can’t—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I’m going to eat alone,” I interject quickly.I turn on my heel and all but run down the stairs.Anything to get away from him.If he watches me go, I don’t turn to see it.He certainly doesn’t follow me.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>bit of a short chapter this time around! if you want to see drawings of the new recruits, i post occasional spitfire doodles to my social media (twitter, tumblr, insta, etc), where i am also mayakern!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Palm to Palm, Heart to Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>there is a song in this chapter! it is linked at the relevant moment but you can also find it at spitfireost.bandcamp.com</p><p>i'd like to thank my good friend Ariel (notokguys @ twitter) for her help with the bones of this song.  i haven't written new music in quite a while and she really helped me out. Ariel has helped with tons of other Spitfire things as well.  she has been nothing but supportive and insanely insightful.  she helped me beat the outline into submission when i was hardcore struggling with it.</p><p>the upcoming chapter is mildly zesty! if you've been reading up to this point, i don't think i need to warn you about these things, but for some reason i still feel like i should!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend my lunch in solitary silence.A servant brings my meal to my chambers and I pass the hour going over a thick stack of documents — supply reports, merchant petitions, construction proposals, the usual.In addition to taking care of the new paperwork that has flooded my desk since my return, I am also expected to look over those papers which were relegated to others in my absence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Confronted by this daunting mass of documents, I realize that I have not had much time alone since returning from Voswain.Yes, I’ve had moments here and there to pick away at paperwork, but the piles grow constantly and I’ve hardly made a dent in them.I’m usually better than this.By the end of the lunch hour, I’m halfway through my first stack of papers and my lunch is nearly untouched.I send a servant to convey to Allene that, regretfully, I must miss her evening tea gathering. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s the seemingly little things — ledgers, petitions, construction permits and the like — that are too menial for the king to handle, but which still require the approval of someone with some measure of authority.It’s maddening, sometimes, just how unending it is.I have to remind myself that although to me these matters are frequently nothing more than headache-inducing sheafs of paper packed with tiny, cramped writing, to the people of my country they mean the difference between a life lived in desperation and hardship and a life lived well.It’s a sobering — and, well, rather terrifying — thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Soon, Jasper joins me at my desk.For the next several hours, we sit together and muddle through the administrative tedium that lives at the heart of managing any sort of government.The knowledge that Mikhail should be here, helping and hindering our progress in equal measure, sits heavily between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t remember any servants entering the chamber, but at some point Jasper hands me a cup of tea and I realize my lunch has long since been cleared away.Little black squiggles, the echoes of endless fine print, dance behind my eyelids.I blink blearily up at Jasper and watch as he nudges a few stacks of paperwork aside to make an empty spot on the desk where he then sets down a platter laden with snack foods — rava toast, kachori, potato fry, fig and date bars, the works.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I raise my eyebrows.“How does the kitchen staff expect two people to finish all this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They know you didn’t eat lunch,” Jasper says gently.He picks up a small plate and begins to fill it with food.I can smell the savory heat of the potatoes and the delicious greasy pungency of fried food in a flaky crust.Against my wishes, my stomach rumbles.“And they know you likely won’t eat dinner, either.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown up at him from my seat, my brow pinching in the middle.Jasper looks back down at me with soft, worried eyes, the plate held out between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Am I that predictable?” I ask.Sighing, I take the proffered dish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We all see your dedication,” Jasper answers as he begins to fill his own plate.“It is not a bad thing to be known for.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the notion that I am incapable of taking care of myself — is that something I’m known for as well?” I ask mulishly as I begin to eat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jasper laughs, just a little, in his quiet, gentle way.“Only amongst those of us who care for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next morning, Captain Elske meets me in my chambers to discuss the new additions to my personal guard.I offer her a cup of tea and a seat.She refuses both.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I won’t be long,” she says.Her voice is gruffer than usual, rough around the edges as if she hasn’t rested well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve chosen, then?” I ask. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” she answers, looking decidedly unhappy about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Were she another sort of captain, the decision would be mine to make.Elske Gaebel joined my personal guard after a botched kidnapping just before my tenth birthday.She is one of the few people I trust implicitly.I trust not only her capabilities and her commitment, but her judgement and honesty as well.There are few I can rely on to tell me the truth, no matter what, few whom I know will openly defy and disagree with me for my betterment.She is one of them.Feon, of course, is another (though his judgement is rather less sound).Neither the captain nor I have any interest in maintaining the illusion of blind subservience that is likely expected of her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Had we more time, I’d cast a wider net,” she continues.“As it is, I’m already pursuing other contacts… but I don’t like the prospect of sitting on our asses while we wait for trouble to take us unaware.Whatever the purpose of that ambush in Scoil Pass, I don’t like the timing of it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A scowl deepens the lines in her handsome face, creasing the skin on either side of the prominent mole on the bridge of her nose.I’ve always been impressed with her.There was even an embarrassing time in my youth when my idolatry transformed into infatuation.That was, of course, before I realized that even if the fifteen year gap between us were not enough to crush our non-existent budding romance, certainly her romantic preferences would do the job thoroughly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.“You’ve been thinking on it more, then.”It’s not a question, but she nods regardless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“While threats to the Nadaran crown aren’t unusual, the timing of this…”Captain Elske huffs a sigh and shakes her head.She looks uncharacteristically frustrated.“You know as well as I, unless our assailants were Ogrench themselves, it’s hardly worth the trouble to venture that deep into Ogren for what advantage was gained.It’s not something done casually and the Ogrench — while I won’t rule out an attack from their population, it seems… strange.Unless, unbeknownst to us, something has changed our relationship with them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ogren can only loosely be called a country.In reality, it is what is left of the fae wilds that once spread across the entire continent.When humans came to settle the land, we took to it from the corners and slowly spread inwards.What we now call Ogren is less a unified governance than it is the last remnants of pure, untamable magic and the scattered human communities that have learned to make peace with it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You think the attack was a result of my betrothal,” I reply, frowning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve spoken with Ladies Fidelity and Clemence extensively — and with Princess Allene as well,” the captain says.“She’d never had an attempt on her life before this.Prince Cassidy has, but he is the Voswainian heir and first in line to inherit the throne.As third in line, there was not much point in terminating the princess’ life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Until she became my future queen,” I breathe.It’s a gut punch.I’d assumed that the ambush — ill-timed though it was — was just another attempt on my life.Allene, I think, suspected otherwise.I could have talked to her about it.Perhaps I should have.At the time, I didn’t have the words to explain myself.It is one thing, I think, to grow up royal, but not expecting to rule.It is entirely different to know that you are your country’s only hope for independence, that you walk a fine line between extreme power and terrible vulnerability.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Nadaran royal family is a small one.Each generation, one true heir is born.Our blood demands a price.If another child is born, both cannot survive for long.If I die before fathering a child, the bloodline ends with me.More important, the Bond would end as well.What peace we enjoy, we owe to our blood and our Bond.It would be catastrophic to lose it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why not just kill me?” I ask.“If their aim is to end the succession, there is no more thorough method.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Considering the wounds you endured, I’m certain they were amenable to that solution as well,” Captain Elske replies.“I suspect they see the princess as a weak point.She’s spontaneous, unpredictable, and as of yet untried in the face of battle.Her presence and that of her ladies spreads our guard more thinly.What vulnerabilities we possess, she will exacerbate.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean back in my chair.I press my hand to my face, palm and thumb resting along my jawline, forefinger pressed to the side of my nose, the curve of my middle finger sitting in the valley of my lips.I don’t like this — any of it — but I think I like our lack of information least of all.It’s one thing to know someone wants you dead (and I can think of many people who desire such a thing of me) — it’s another to have an active threat on your life from an unknown source.The silence sits oppressively between us. My hand falls to my lap.“What do we do?” I ask finally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We stay vigilant,” she answers tiredly.“And we wait.And I add Brennard, Connor, and Hazley to your personal guards.”She sighs and runs a hand through her light brown hair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For as long as I’ve known Captain Elske, she’s kept her hair cropped short, tight at the sides but a little longer on top.I remember when she got her first silver streak.I was fifteen, I think, and still recovering from my embarrassing infatuation.Not even Feon could tease the captain for her silver’s early arrival — in part because it suited her and in part because even then she was terrifying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And we hope that the castle is well guarded enough to compensate for a couple buffoons getting their acts together.Hopefully quickly enough to not get us all killed,” she says dryly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Solene save us all,” I exhale.She nods.“So, how will they be divided?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hazley is the only one I trust to behave without my direct supervision.I’d like them to guard the princess,” she answers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That means putting Brennard and Connor together,” I reply.She nods.Pressing the palms of my hands into my eyes, I let out a protracted sigh.“This is going to be horrible,” I say.I feel a hand on my shoulder and I lower my arms to look up at Captain Elske.She’s not a soft woman, nor a sweet one, but there is kindness in her.You just have to know what to look for.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If cooperation proves impossible, I’ll have Brennard and Hazley swap.At the very least, I know he is competent,” she says.She squeezes my shoulder and then lets her arm drop.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s just insufferable,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Completely and utterly,” she commiserates.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it’s not as if I haven’t done enough paperwork in the past day,” I say tiredly.“Have the seneschal draw up the necessary documents and get their salaries approved by the bursar.I’ll have it authorized before tonight’s gala.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Understanding my words as dismissal, Captain Elske bows curtly and quits the room.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guilt is a strange thing.It is vindictive and illogical and it is indifferent towards one’s intentions.Guilt is a wet cloak that clings to my shoulders, heavy and suffocating.After twenty-six years, I feel as if I should be better armored against it, for guilt has long been a companion near and dear to my heart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caederyn,” Allene says, looking up at me with concern.“Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift uncomfortably in place.Beyond the doors, I can hear the low hum of the chattering crowd.They are waiting for us, I know. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just nervous,” I reply.It’s not entirely a lie.I feel terrible and some amount of that is indeed due to nerves — but not the brunt of it.I shoot Allene what I hope is a quick, reassuring smile.“I’ll be fine soon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sighs and pats my arm gently.“What has you so worried?” she asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene looks radiant as ever.Her gown is deceptively simple — or at least, simple compared to usual fare — save that it is rendered in the most startlingly blue velvet I have ever seen.The gown’s neckline dips low, weighed down by a heavy broach, and bares the elegant curves of her shoulders and the alluring swell of her bust. Bands of silver ring her upper arms just below the shoulders, and beneath that the velvet flares into short, ruffled sleeves.Hints of dainty lace peek out from under the velvet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, “Nothing in particular.”She keeps her gaze fixed steadily on mine, waiting.My insides thrum uneasily under the weight of her expectant expression.“And, also, everything.”I run a hand distractedly through my hair and try to stifle the nervous laugh that threatens to burst from my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene frowns back at me.“Why don’t you talk me through it?” she presses.“Tell me what you think will go wrong.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not that I think anything will go <em>wrong, </em>necessarily,” I reply.I release a long breath and try to calm myself.“It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I try to keep my voice low enough for just the two of us.Captain Elske stands at my shoulder and behind her stand the rest of our guard, new recruits and all.I know that true privacy is a rare and precious thing, and not something I am ever to be afforded, but I still don’t like the idea of sharing my eccentricities with near strangers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed—” Allene begins, a frown pulling at her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He said it’s <em>fine.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn and see Feon sauntering down the hallway towards us.His golden hair glints sweetly in the reflection of the hall lights.Feon’s frustration comes in fierce, staccato plucks on the Bond between us, like tiny bubbles rolling and popping as water boils over.In spite of this, a feeling of immense relief floods my heart.It’s almost enough to wash away the restless dread within me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I say, trying to sound irritated.“You’re late.”I doubt I fool anyone, least of all him.I know he can feel my helpless gratitude — and my guilt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon rolls his eyes.“Have you been called to enter yet?” he asks, exasperated.“No, otherwise you’d be in the ballroom, smiling and waving and pretending to have a good time.Clearly, I haven’t missed anything.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He falters for the scantest of moments before clapping me on the shoulder.His hesitation is something I’m unprepared for and it hurts more than I could have expected.It’s a plummeting feeling, a distinct sort of wrong-footedness, that moment of dreadful realization when you stretch your body too far and feel it snap or tear as it gives way under pressure.No matter how we’ve fought before, he’s never felt uncomfortable touching me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, thank you for joining us, Feon,” Allene says, attempting to smooth out the awkward air as one might a length of ruffled fabric.“It wouldn’t do to arrive with only half a matched set,” she continues, gesturing to our ensembles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As is frequently done for important events, Feon’s and my outfits have been coordinated.I wear a long, fitted jacket of deep red velvet with intricate golden embroidery embellishments.It’s a finely made piece, the result of many hours’ toil by clever hands.I wear it overtop a set of off-white tight, slouched trousers and a long-skirted tunic that hits me mid-calf, kept purposefully simple to offset the ornate statement of the jacket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s high-collared vest is the match to my jacket.It’s made of the same red velvet and has been embellished identically.He wears it overtop a similar mid-length tunic and trousers combination, but that is where the similarities end.My jacket is clasped down to the navel, where it then falls gently open until it hits below my knees.His vest is buttoned just beneath the collar and then left to part, revealing a belted waist, until it ends somewhere around his hips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I clear my throat uncomfortably, feeling that Allene has very much not succeeded in lessening the tension.“Yes,” I agree.“Thank you for joining us.”I was afraid, after yesterday, that he might not show up at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Highnesses, Your Grace,” a servant says hesitantly, and bows low to the three of us.“It is time.”I don’t think I have ever been more grateful to be ushered into an event. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene takes my hand in one of her own and gives it a squeeze.When I glance back at her, she’s smiling at me reassuringly.I slide my hand from hers and take her arm instead, as is custom.Feon falls in behind us and our guards fill in after him.I notice Connor, the wildest of our new recruits, has had her unruly hair pulled back into a tight chignon.She has the distinctly pinked look of someone who was forced into a deep and thorough scrubbing.She doesn’t seem particularly happy about it.When she notices my gaze, she gives a low bow that almost manages to look respectful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At Connor’s side, Brennard stands back straight, chest puffed, with a sort of graceless rigidity that belies his nerves.Somehow, he simultaneously looks both pompous and nervous.I almost don’t notice Hazley standing at Connor’s other side.It’s not just the height difference, though that is part of it.There is such an air of calmness about Hazley that they nearly look unremarkable.I doubt my eyes would catch on them for long if it weren’t for the brightness of their dandelion-colored hair.I catch Sieglinde’s eye as I size up our line.She smiles and gives me a thumbs up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn back to face front and take a deep breath.After my nod, two servants pull the grand double doors open before us.The bright golden glow of the ballroom’s domed drachenglas ceiling washes over us.Most of the time, the glass ceiling is left inactive, an invisible barrier between us and the heavens, so that the grand ballroom looks as if it opens directly into the sky.On special occasions, when the ceiling is made active, in unleashes its many hours of stored sunlight in a breathtaking display that bathes the ballroom in the glittering golden light of the newly risen sun.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene lets out a small gasp and her arm stiffens in mine.I glance sidelong at her and am rewarded by the sight of a wide-eyed, wondering smile spreading slowly across her face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.Her face is gleaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Vaguely, I am aware of a servant announcing our names.“Caederyn Elio Sa’Nova, The Noble Sun… His betrothed, Princess Allene Yvonne Fidele Narissara Briallen… and Lord Feon, Hand of the Sun…”Their voice is distant in the face of Allene’s radiance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come,” I say, and lead her onwards. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel curiously light.My worries are there still, but they’ve receded from the forefront.The great hall is a field of bright, expectant faces, all intent on our small party.In some ways I think I will never quite be comfortable in such a situation, but I have Allene on my arm and Feon at my back.Whatever I am, at the very least I am not alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we glide down the long, thin red carpet laid out down the center of the ballroom, Allene leans in towards me.“You know… I always did wonder about those titles of yours,” she whispers.“‘The Noble Sun.’That’s very grand, isn’t it?” Allene pauses for a breath.“It’s rather <em>romantic,</em> don’t you think?” she says, mischief in the quiet lilt of her voice, as if she’s suppressing a laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s tradition to receive a title upon coming of age,” I reply.I keep my head held high and pointed purposefully towards the far end of the room.“Perhaps, if I do something notable during my reign, I will earn another.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we progress, chatter picks up behind us.It’s as if our passage has granted the people permission to gossip.The grand ballroom is arranged so that we must walk near its entire length, passing all the other guests, before we reach our seats.Our destination is a long, arcing table at the head of the seating area.Before the table is an open space — which will later be used for dancing — and beyond that is a raised stage.Chairs are arranged down the table’s length on the side facing the stage.Smaller, half moon-shaped tables, each seating five, radiate behind the high table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we reach the high table, my father rises from his seat at its center and clasps our hands in turn.He then helps Mother to her feet and she embraces us one by one.She’s looking unusually well tonight.There’s a pleasant flush to her cheeks and her dark eyes are bright with joy.Though she steadies herself against my father’s side, it looks more a precaution than a necessity. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something about seeing that — about seeing her happy and almost whole — does more to ease my mind than anything else could.I take my place at my father’s right and Allene takes the open seat beside me, where previously Feon would have sat.Instead, Feon takes a place at my mother’s left.It’s the farthest we’ve ever sat from one another at an important function and it makes me feel strangely off balance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard occupies the seat to Allene’s right, and they waste no time in greeting one another.At Lady Ballard’s other side sits her parent.The ambassador is engaged in conversation with the man to their right, but as my eyes sweep the table, they glance back and catch my gaze for a moment.Ambassador Halwynn Ballard inclines their head just enough to be respectful, but with none of the feeling that should go with such a gesture.A slow, condescending smirk pulls at the corner of their lips — the corner not marred by angry red scars.Then they look away, clearly dismissive, as if I am barely worth a moment of their attention.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene must have requested this seating arrangement.Ambassador Ballard and their daughter are important enough figures that to not seat them at the high table would have been profoundly disrespectful, but they would normally never have ended up so close to its heart. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I watch, Ambassador Ballard raises their goblet lazily and nods to someone.I glance back along their eye line just in time to catch my father’s look of hard, repressed fury when his eyes meet those of Ambassador Ballard.Father notices me looking and the expression dies on his face immediately.I turn away, a deep unease twisting my gut.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king clears his throat and holds up his goblet.Somewhere behind us a servant sounds a bright chime.The chatter about the hall dies almost immediately. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess Allene,” he begins.His voice is steady and effortlessly regal in a way I can never manage.It carries easily.“I would like to welcome you as a new addition to our table.I hope that together with my son, you can learn to support one another as true partners.”We raise our glasses to his words and drink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My mother speaks next.She has her arms wrapped loosely around one of my father’s.Under the table, his free hand rests gently upon her knee. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess Allene,” she says.She has none of my father’s fortitude. She speaks softly, her voice weak but bright.Those at the end of our table visibly struggle to hear her, to say nothing of the rest of the guests spread throughout the grand hall.“Thank you for joining us.Though we have only recently met, I can see how clearly and brightly your light shines.I have long wished for a daughter.I hope you will welcome us as family as readily as you have accepted my Caederyn as your future husband and king.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To my right, Allene leans forward so that she may share her smile with the queen.I watch as my betrothed dabs delicately at her wet eyes with the corner of her napkin.“I would love nothing better,” she answers with feeling.Allene raises her glass and, together, we drink.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn to her and raise my goblet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I say, softer than I meant.I have to clear my throat and begin again.“Princess Allene.Thank you for joining your fate with mine.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Holding her gaze, I drink deeply.There is a moment of stillness before the rest of the hall joins in.It’s awkward, disjointed, some people drinking, others offering polite, scattered applause, none of them quite in sync.I wonder if, perhaps, they expected something more and are now disappointed in my toast.Allene drinks to my words, her eyes locked on mine.Under the table, she slides her free hand over top my thigh until our hands meet.She clasps our hands together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” Allene says quietly, just to me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the applause lapses, she raises her voice.“Thank you, all of you, for your kindness and your warm welcome.I am so happy to be here and to be embraced so readily as part of your family.I look forward to a long and prosperous unity between us and, more than that, to our budding love…”Here, Allene glances back at me and gives me a sly smile.“Both familial and otherwise.”Someone in the crowd behind us laughs.“I hope to endear myself to you and your people as you have already done to me.And I hope, as well, to grow with you as you become the wise and just king I know you will one day be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare back at Allene and wonder, for not the first time that day, how I came into the fortune of her favor.She grins back up at me and drinks from her cup.I remember, belatedly, to drink as well, but find it difficult to swallow around the thickness in my throat.When applause breaks out, there is nothing perfunctory about it.I set my goblet down and take her hand in both of my own and raise it to my lips.She gazes back at me, her black eyes gleaming in the golden light of the drachenglas ceiling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dinner is served then.Identically dressed servants glide out from the wings with trays laden heavily with dishes.As the servants move about the grand hall, the deep red curtain before us parts, revealing the stage behind it.A middle aged woman sits in a single chair in the center of the stage.Her face is somber and marked by deep lines of both laughter and sorrow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She bears before her an upright standing bass of brilliant gold that winks in the glittering light.It is the most remarkable part of her appearance.Though the bard is dressed in fine fabric, there is a plainness to her garb, a distinct lack of embellishment or bright colors that I might expect from one of her profession.There is something distinctly forgettable about her, like a smudge on a page you still manage to read through.Her hand on the bass is casual, almost artless, and as the room quiets she picks at the strings: three notes, cheerless and near discordant, repeated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then she sings:</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tarnished gold and polished steel</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A fatal fight where none would yield</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A serpent’s strike, her venom’s steel</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Her silver knight, undying zeal</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A battle won, too high the cost</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The golden drake, the world we lost</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It starts slowly, almost unbearably so.The bard’s voice is clear and raw, a counterpoint to the monotonous march of the bass.There’s something haunted in her, a hollowness that reverberates through the grand hall.Listening to her is tense and uncomfortable and not at all in accordance with tonight’s celebration.In other words, it’s perfect for a Nadaran Ball.We always love to have our tragedy at the head of the night before the party gets underway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I know by the second line what story she is telling, though I’ve not heard this telling of it.It is a tale I know deep in my bones.It is a story that every Nadaran child has learned, but none more intimately than I. </span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A waiting foe, the serpent coiled</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The insult struck, our young king boiled</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Caution gone, an aggressive push</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The serpent’s strike, a foul ambush</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Our noble dragon overhead</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Our army fettered by living dead</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers tap nervously on the table, my dinner forgotten.The thrum of the bass marches inexorably forward, like troops trudging through thick, clinging mud. The bard’s voice catches and burns, like cinders biting at the end of a fuze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I assume preparations for tonight’s gala were made well in advance and that my father was just as surprised by the Ballards’ early arrival as I was, else I can’t imagine he’d have allowed the bard to sing tribute to this particular moment in history.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Yuen was brave and fierce and loyal</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>He cut his teeth serving his royal</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>With golden scale and mouth of flame</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>He rent the air in Rynnwald's name</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>And then they came, those silver knights</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Who death ignored, those odious wights</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At mention of the Larish knights, the bard’s voice turns dark.Her tone shifts freely between grief and rage.She is both the righteous bonfire and the wailing storm which threatens to douse it.I glance sideways, past Allene, and attempt to lean forward just enough to get line of sight on Lady Ballard or her parent without being too obvious.Lady Ballard sits poised and imperious, her back straight, her fork aloft.She is betrayed only by the tension in her hand, the rigid pressure of her fingers as they grip the silverware.She is so practiced in the art of comportment that I would have missed it had I not been looking for just such a sign.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>They fought, unfettered by mortal strain,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Unbothered by steel or fire or pain</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>They slaughtered our men, a valley of blood</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Mountains of corpses rotting in the mud</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Yuen fought bravely, he set them ablaze</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>He lit up the night with the sun’s golden rays</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hazard a glance towards Ambassador Ballard.My chest feels tight and fluttery with apprehension.In contrast, Ambassador Ballard seems entirely at ease.There’s a languidness to their posture that cannot be imitated by one attempting false gentility.Looking at them, you wouldn’t think they had any part in this tale, that this was how they earned their scars.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>And that viper’s grip, it finally broke</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Our dauntless king’s good wit then woke</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>That foul serpent, she muffed her mark</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Missing the king, but striking his heart</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Deathless silver had taken its aim</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A shot in the dark through a field in flame</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bard’s voice is like kindling.There is a heat, a discomfort, that nips at me, like a traitor put to the coals.I feel I am not alone in this.At the high table, faces tense and shoulders stiffen.They’re realizing it now, I think — that they’re unable to feign they do not know the direction of the song’s climax or just who, exactly, numbers amongst us.Guests tense uncomfortably, shooting sidelong glances at our visiting Larish nobles.They know this story and they know how it ends.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Sun crested hills, slaughter lit in the glow,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Glinting off steel and our gold one brought low</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>At darkest hour, the battle did turn</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A field wet with blood will still kindle, still burn</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Ash in the wind, hot cinders like snow</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The land knows no fury like Rynnwald's woe</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The song climbs in both tempo and tone and the tension ratchets.It builds, almost unbearably so, like a fire left unattended — and then it drops away.The word “woe” is sung softly, the bard’s voice stuttering with deep, unrelenting heartache. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To my left, my father sits like a tall, handsome rock: upright, upstanding, and utterly unyielding.He does not look at me or at his people.He certainly does not hazard a glance towards Ambassador Ballard or their daughter.He looks calmly out over the high table, his eyes set firmly upon the singing bard.Her voice warbles and dips, wrought with emotion.She looks wholly unaware of the chaos unfolding before her.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The last flame of Yuen, on his dying breath</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Brought reason to Rynnwald, tempered by his death</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The last flame of Yuen, then sputtered and spent,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Burned all laid before him: field, man, and serpent</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The last flame of Yuen, on that Bloody Dawn</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Won us the battle, and then he was gone</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene leans forward slightly and I turn towards her.She gives me a questioning look.The high table is quietly abuzz, Nadarans attempting to exchange quiet whispers without appearing to do anything of the sort. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head minutely and then mouth, “Later,” before turning back to the performance.The bard’s voice rises to a high falsetto wrought with emotion before dropping into a soft, broken croon.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>That day we saw it: gold tarnished by ash</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The life of dear Yuen, cut short in the clash</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Bonds they were broken, pillaged by death’s hold</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>His body mangled, soot staining bright gold</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A dragon’s Bond leaves a smoldering brand</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>On man and on king, on war-stricken land</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Behind us, the low buzz of gossip slowly escalates, like a match struck in slow motion.It echoes the righteous ascent of the bard’s singing.Lady Ballard is now staring at the singer with a sour, festering malice that could shrivel the mightiest tree.Her parent seems supremely unbothered and it is this, more than anything, that seems to spur the ire of those around them.The whispers, once shocked and wondering, have quickly turned outraged.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tarnished gold and polished steel</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A fatal fight where none would yield</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A serpent’s strike, her venom’s steel</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Her silver knight, undying zeal</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A battle won, too high the cost</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The golden drake, the world we lost</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the bard’s last note fades to silence, there is a moment when the grand ballroom is alive with furious whispering, like angry bees roused by the prodding of a hapless waif.Then, as if suddenly made self conscious, the crowd’s buzzing drops, like the silence left after the fall of the guillotine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A chair scrapes loudly in the quiet.It echoes all down the chamber.I glance over as Ambassador Ballard stands.They raise their hands and I tense.It’s one of those strange moments that feels weightier than it ought.Brief as it may be, it feels unbearably endless, the space between breaths stretched as long and tight as a high wire.Ambassador Ballard brings their hands together in slow applause that echoes throughout the hushed hall.If the tense silence is the wire, then Halwynn Ballard is the funambulist who maneuvers it with dumbfounding poise.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brava,” they say.Their voice is rich and carrying. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment of stilted silence, others join in.Applause slowly builds until near the entire hall is on its feet.I stand as well and join in and as the volume of clapping hands grows, so too swells the low murmur of gossip around us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Majesty,” Ambassador Ballard continues, just loud enough to be heard over the crowd.“A phenomenal find, that artist.I think I should like to commission her myself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My father’s eyes are hard as they rest on Ambassador Ballard’s face.I think there is a good many things he would like to say to the Larish ambassador, none of which are appropriate for courtly functions. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I shall relay your wishes personally,” the king replies, his voice toneless even as he stands and joins in the applause.Ambassador Ballard nods deferentially and resumes their seat, and soon the rest of the hall follows suit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bard gives one last bow before retreating from the stage. I wonder if she knows what utter chaos her song has caused.Did she ever even notice who was amongst her audience?There are a great many things that Ambassador Ballard has accomplished in their time as an ambassador and, before that, in their time in the Grand Larish Army.I know from my history lessons that they were tantamount to the Larish cause, a sort of commander’s commander, a general who spoke in their god’s own voice.Before Halwynn Ballard became titled, before they became an ambassador, they were once known as Halwynn the Undying.They fought in the Battle of Ash opposite my father.It is they who are most often credited with Yuen’s end and they bear the angry, blistered scars to prove it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As we resume our seats, Allene leans over towards me.Voice pitched low, she asks, “What happens to the other dragons?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only half listening, I tilt my head to one side, uncertain of her meaning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” she continues.One of her hands finds mine below the table.“The other Bonded dragons.Aside from those lost before their time, I understand dragons to have a remarkably long lifespan, yet Feon is the only proper dragon I’ve seen since arriving in Nadara.I had thought to see others…”She trails off, then, and takes a moment to comport herself before pressing on. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where do they go?Couldn’t a previously Bonded dragon join the king?” she asks.“You know, after… after Yuen…”She falls silent, her voice growing uncharacteristically meek.It is a rare moment, I think, when she realizes that her curiosity has superseded her empathy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though it is early in the night, I already feel drained.“I don’t know,” I reply quietly.“I’ve never thought about that…”A frown wrinkles my brow and I can feel a dullness at the back of my skull, the warning of an incipient headache. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It doesn’t feel right,” I say finally.“Thinking about that.I think even if Father were to seek another dragon, it wouldn’t work.Even if that dragon had already been Bonded, it wouldn’t be the right connection.They would be Bonded, yes… but not to one other.”A servant approaches and takes away my nearly untouched plate before another man slides a new one into its place.“I think the dragons go back to Domina.It is their homeland, after all.I imagine they must miss it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene looks thoughtful at that.“That does make sense…” she says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, I can’t help but think that she looks thoroughly put out at the prospect and I wonder if she had been hoping for some huge, secret conspiracy about lingering dragons hidden among us, watching over us in Yuen’s stead.If there is any such conspiracy, I do not know of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the night is something of a blur.Other performers take the stage — a group of tumblers, an acting troupe, a small dance company.None of them have the presence of that first, single bard.They perform, they entertain, and they leave, providing not much more than a colorful backdrop to the rest of the evening’s festivities.Eventually, the highlighted performances come to an end and are followed by the palace’s band, a group of musicians kept on permanent retainer.Amidst the melodic dissonance of the musicians bringing their instruments to tune, the next leg of the gala unfolds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One by one, the Nadaran nobles at the high table approach Allene and myself.Each bares a small token of their favor, a preamble to the gifts that will be given to us on our wedding day.We accept them graciously.When Ambassador Ballard and their daughter rise to meet us, I find myself not able to do much more than nod and smile stiffly.I fade back and leave Allene to carry the brunt of this social exchange.I don’t remember what words were said, only the hard line of Lady Ballard’s smirk and the lazy, superior smile on her parent’s half-scarred face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move mechanically, smiling and greeting people and accepting gifts.Allene comports herself with charm and wit.Though she is foreign to this court, she has a social grace I can never hope to emulate. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” she says, voice low.She’s leaned in close to me, one hand resting just below my shoulder, her lips a scant inch or so from my ear.Her breath is a warm whisper against my skin.When I turn to glance her way, she is smiling.“Would you do me the immense pleasure of taking me to dance?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before us, the empty space in front of the stage is now filled with dancing people, some in groups, some coupled up, and others solo.The night is fully underway now and so the band has taken up a boisterous tune.I can still feel the tension of the night’s events as a constricting force on my insides, but it has eased somewhat with time.Allene seems entirely at ease.It makes me wonder if she has any inkling of Ambassador Ballard’s history with my father and their role in our nation’s tragedy. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know how to dance in the Nadaran fashion?” I ask.Perhaps a distraction would do me well. Allowing myself to dwell on history will only add to my misery.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know the basics,” she says.“But I’d love to learn more.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a smile, I stand and offer her my hand.“I can’t profess to be a terribly gifted teacher, but I will do what I can,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She takes my hand and rises beside me.“I would not ask for anything more.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We move arm in arm to the sidelines of the dance floor.This close to the band, the beat of the drum and the thrum of the bass reverberate through the floor, through my bones.My hand slides down to clasp hers and when a space opens before us, I pull her with me into the fray.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Voswainian and Nadaran dances are very different.Voswainian dance is meant to foster conversation and intimacy.Their choreography is meant for the couple and usually necessitates holding one’s partner close.Their tempos never swell to a speed that is too vigorous for talking.Nadaran ballroom is more freeform.Dancers can move in pairs or groups or all on their own.A Nadaran dance is meant to elevate the heart rate and still the mind.Dancers seldom, if ever, touch, and never more intimately than two hands clasped together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we fall into place, my hand drops from hers, but I remain close.Having grown up in court, the rhythm and the footwork are second nature to me.I am not the most graceful dancer, but I move well enough to not embarrass myself.Perhaps it is bias, but I think I prefer our style of dance.Voswainian dancing gives me too much time and space to grow self conscious.It makes it much too easy to think about how very on display we are.Here, I can lose myself in the crowd as much as I am ever able to do.There is no balcony overlooking the dance floor, no partygoers hanging over the railings and judging me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene, I think, is not quite so at home in this circumstance.It would be a charity to say that she is managing to keep up with the beat, but at the very least she is trying admirably.As it is, her dancing is rather distressingly distracting.It is not that she is so terrible at it — I can tell there is a fundamental level of skill behind her movements — but rather that the neckline of her gown dips quite low.Despite my best efforts to comport myself with gentility, I cannot ignore the alluring curve of her cleavage or the rise and fall of her bosom as she dances with determined enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is much faster than in my lessons,” Allene puffs out.Her face is flushed and a fine layer of sweat glistens on her brow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then I’m afraid you didn’t have a very good teacher,” I reply, aiming for sympathy but not quite nailing it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, hush,” she says tiredly.She reaches forward and shoves a hand against my shoulder.“I’d have a better time of it if it weren’t for this blasted dress!”She gestures down to her blue velvet gown, which I think must be more suited to keeping one warm than to allowing one to move freely.She sinks her hands into the fabric and lifts her skirts, bearing a stretch of stockings and a hint of lace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene—” I begin, my face growing hot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her head is dipped, her eyes kept glued to her feet with a furious determination as she does her best to keep in step with me.At the sound of my voice, she glances up to meet my gaze.Allene begins to open her mouth in response and it is then that she trips, velvet skirt slipping out from her curled fingers and into her foot’s path.She lurches forward and without hesitation, I move to catch her.She falls into my arms, her face warm and sweaty against my neck, the swell of her breasts pressed tightly to my chest.I feel her breath hitch and then release, the warm gust of air tickling the skin of my jaw.I hardly even notice the discomfort as her broach digs into my sternum.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” Allene breathes into my neck.Her hands slide up my chest until they rest at the dip of my shoulders.I am utterly still, my footwork forgotten, the music drowned out by the pounding of blood in my ears.She leans back just enough to meet my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” another voice cuts in.I turn quickly and see Feon watching us, his lips turned down into a scowl.Allene and I separate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll just, err, I think I’m feeling a bit thirsty,” Allene says, sounding flustered.“I’ll just go and sit and—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll join you,” I say quickly, already stepping aside to lead her from the dance floor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” Feon says again.He holds a hand out to me.“It’s tradition.”Our Bond twangs between us, tinny and thin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back to Allene, torn.She lays a hand on my shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go,” she says kindly.“I don’t mind.”She leans up and presses a kiss to my cheek.“Find me after,” she whispers into my ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bow, face hot, and watch as she leaves.Feon clears his throat and I turn back to him.I feel very distinctly wrong footed.As I regard him, Feon has the face of a man determined to walk directly into the ocean.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The band shifts into a new song, this one faster still.Feon clasps my hand firmly in his own and pulls me back onto the dance floor.His feet move with speed and skill.He slides and twists and shifts with a natural ease I’ve always envied.He doesn’t drop my hand as we move, tying us together with the force of his grip.He holds his head high and keeps his golden eyes locked on mine.With our hands pressed together palm to palm, I can feel the furious jump of his pulse.Our Bond sings, jealousy and pain and pride and love all tangled together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you’re going to make me watch the two of you falling in love, the least you can do is save me a dance,” Feon says through gritted teeth.There is a hardness in his golden eyes that I have not often seen directed my way.Feon spins me away from him and it’s more than the dance that has me reeling.He pulls me back in, closer than is polite.His hand is tight around mine and his breath is hot on my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I breathe, feeling a deep weakness in both my heart and my knees.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope she’s worth it,” he replies.He stares up into my eyes, his face flushed becomingly.Then he releases me and shoves me back before turning on his heel and fleeing into the crowd.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon leaves me on the dance floor, a lone still figure in a sea of vigorously dancing bodies.I don’t know how long it takes me to return to my wits, only that by the time I think to quit the dance floor, the song has ended.I wade through the crowd, my head swimming and empty.I feel like I should have a mess of thoughts careening through my mind, but all I can think about is the unshakable pressure of Feon’s hand in mine and the heat of Allene’s breath on my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stop short before the high table.The crowd has parted before me just enough that I can see her.Allene has resumed her seat at the center of the table, two chairs down from the king’s place, which is now empty.It’s late in the night and my parents have already departed for the evening. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard is sitting beside Allene.As I watch, Lady Ballard catches my eye and then quickly looks back to my betrothed.A slow smirk spreads across her face and she leans in and brings one of Allene’s hands to her lips.My heart stutters in my chest, suddenly feeling at once fragile and leaden.I must deserve this for what I have done to Feon.I watch as Allene lets out a bright, loud laugh.The golden light of the drachenglas glimmers in her skin and hair.Sometimes she is so incredibly beautiful that it is actively distressing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I approach the table.I am still on the side nearer the dance floor and so the table’s width separates us.“Allene,” I say, my voice coming out rather raspier than I would like.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene glances up and when she sees me, her face breaks out into a dazzling smile.“Oh, there you are,” she says.“Did you have fun?”I nod mutely.Despite knowing Feon’s feelings for me, she seems supremely unbothered by our dance together.Were I in her position, I do not know if I could manage that level of confidence.When I round the end of the long table and join Allene at her seat, she continues.“Listen, Caederyn, Lysithea was just telling me about a mermaid she met recently in Odenil Bay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really,” I say, brows raised.“That far north at this time of year?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard blinks at me slowly like a contented cat, but with none of the sweetness.“Do you think I would lie to Allene?” she asks.Her tone is mild, but I know better than most the venom hidden in her fathoms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was just surprised,” I reply awkwardly.“I did not mean to imply I doubted your credibility.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course not,” Lady Ballard snipes, her nose wrinkled with displeasure.Behind Allene’s back, she rolls her eyes at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, do get over yourselves, <em>please,”</em> Allene says, exasperated.“I am very fond of the both of you and these childish antics are only amusing in short bursts.<em>Very</em> short bursts.”She eyes us each in turn with much the same look as a dispassionate governess.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment of awkward silence, Lady Ballard sighs dramatically and leans back in her seat.“And here I thought I was never anything less than exceedingly charming!”She drapes herself over the back of her seat, her eyes widened with mock sorrow.“Oh, woe is me!Cut to the quick of my very being, my vulnerable soul laid low by one I had so deeply trusted.Is there no greater tragedy, no betrayal more cruel?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene attempts to keep her face schooled into stoic displeasure, but soon the corners of her mouth are trembling.She bursts into a wide, helpless smile, a small laugh spilling from her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am never going to get my way, am I?” she sighs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard shrugs languidly before her attention shifts to me.“So,” she begins, eyeing me.Draped as she is over her chair, she looks rather like a sleeping snake — boneless with leisure but still imminently dangerous.“Your new guard.”She inclines her head and I turn, following her line of sight to the near wall, where our guards stand at ease.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn back to Lady Ballard.I can feel my brow pinching in the middle.“What of them?” I ask uncomfortably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps I should specify,” Lady Ballard replies.“The hot one.”She inclines her drink in Connor’s general direction.“What’s her story?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” I reply, simultaneously irritated and relieved.“I would tell you to find out for yourself, but she is currently on duty.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard rolls her eyes and drains the last of her drink in one fluid motion.“What do you think is going to happen during a fete of this size?A monster attack?A secret coup?Please.”Smirking, she rises to her feet and strides towards the guards.As she passes me, she pats me absently on the shoulder.“She’ll get bored of you soon,” she says snidely, low enough that I don’t think Allene can hear her.Without looking back, she waves a cocky goodbye to Allene.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That woman is an extremely localized lightning storm waiting to strike us unawares,” I grumble, not expecting Allene to hear me.“She’s infuriating.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That woman,” Allene says, her tone reproachful, “Is one of my dearest friends.”When I glance her way, Allene’s eyes are locked on mine.Her mouth has formed into a hard line of displeasure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” I sigh, feeling properly chastised.“I am sorry.”I lean forward, my elbows pressing into the table as my forehead comes to rest against my cupped hands.“I do wish it were easier for us to make peace,” I say tiredly.Privately, I wish Lady Ballard were even moderately less intolerable and that her parent hadn’t murdered my father’s Bonded dragon.I feel a hand at my shoulder and glance up to see Allene looking back at me.Her eyes are softer now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know there is much history between your countries,” she says quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And between our families,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, and that,” she agrees.She leans in close to me, one hand on my shoulder, the other curled in her lap.She looks at me intently.“You do not have to inherit that enmity.Either of you,” she says seriously.“And it would mean a lot to me if you would actively work to dismantle it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hold her gaze.We are close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face.“I don’t know if I have that power,” I reply truthfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You will be king one day,” Allene says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.My eyes fall from hers and I am immediately greeted by the sight of her bared cleavage before me.Leaned towards me as she is, I am given a very generous view.I hastily raise my eyes again, silently panicking at the inappropriate nature of my thoughts during such a serious conversation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will try,” I say finally.I turn from her, my face hot.Feeling suddenly parched, I reach for my goblet and take a large gulp.Sadly, the wine does not much help.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” Allene says.I can hear a hint of laughter in her voice.“While I appreciate your earnestness, you needn’t behave with quite <em>that</em> amount of propriety.”I feel her heat as she draws nearer.“We are to be wed soon,” she says softly, her warm breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance her way and find her leaned in close, her hands curled beside either hip atop the seat of her chair, arms locked to support her weight.I don’t know if it is purposeful or not, but the way her arms bracket her chest has caused her breasts to press together.It is incredibly distracting.When my eyes meet hers, she is smiling knowingly, and any notion of it being an accident is banished.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m feeling rather tired, aren’t you?” she says, her voice low.There’s something distinctly wicked about her smile.I think I like it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Err, not re—” I begin before she cuts me off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I’d like to go back to my rooms.”Allene pauses, then, and gives me a very deliberate once over.“Would you accompany me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I am a horribly stupid man, but luckily not so stupid as to miss the implication of this invitation.“Yes,” I reply immediately.Any moisture once left in my mouth has fled.My tongue feels thick and clumsy.“Of course.”I rise to my feet quickly and hold my arm out for her.Laughing, she takes it, and we walk together back through the grand ballroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske catches my eye and raises a brow.I shake my head and then hesitate and hold up five fingers towards her.I absolutely do not want her accompanying us, but I would be a fool to not have her (or another guard) follow us up later.Captain Elske nods and settles back against the wall.Several feet to her left, Connor stands slouched, her arms crossed over her chest, a lazy grin on her lips.Lady Ballard stands before her looking very much like a smug cat that’s just managed to pilfer the cream from the kitchens, with the cook none the wiser.The two seem to be engrossed in conversation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On our way out of the ballroom, we are stopped no fewer than ten times.There is a sort of excited nervousness thrumming through me and I think Allene feels it as well.I hear it in the lilt of her laughter, in the tension of her arm in mine, in the way she quickly steers us out of any conversations that threaten to linger.As we climb the stairs together, we do not speak, but I find myself unable to keep from sending frequent glances Allene’s way.When I catch her gaze, she smiles, and I know she is doing the same.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we reach her chambers, she pulls a small ring of keys from her pockets.“Oh, damn it all!” she curses as she fumbles with the lock. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I step up behind her and place my hand over hers.“There’s a trick to it, with some of the older locks,” I say.She twists slightly to look back at me.We stand frozen for a moment, my hand on hers, my arm nearly encircling her.One of her shoulders brushes against my chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come here, you,” she demands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene reaches back and fists the collar of my jacket in her free hand and pulls me down into a kiss.My heart gives a wild leap.Her lips are soft and warm and she smells sweet, like apples and pine and sweat.The kiss lingers, stretched over several long moments during which I fear that my heart will violently eject itself through my throat.My hand fumbles with the key and there is an audible click as the lock gives. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Finally!” Allene exclaims.She turns from me to open the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We rush inside, into her drawing room.The door falls shut behind us with a heavy thud that echoes in my mind.My heartbeat rises to a crescendo.We’ve never been in her chambers unaccompanied before.I can feel my palms grow sweaty and so I curl my hands into fists instinctively.When I don’t follow her further, Allene pauses and turns to look back at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed?” she says, frowning.This time her voice is soft. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She approaches me slowly.When she stands before me, she reaches forward to join her hands around one of mine.I make a small sound in the back of my throat, embarrassed by how clammy my hand is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this alright?” she asks carefully.“We do not need to do anything you are uncomfortable with.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I say quickly.“I mean — yes.Yes, it’s fine.More than fine.Oh, hell…”I rake my free hand through my hair and let out a low, nervous laugh.“I’ve messed everything up, haven’t I?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You haven’t messed anything up,” Allene replies kindly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am just — I’m nervous.I’m sorry.”I feel like a bumbling idiot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She presses my hand to her chest, over where her heart beats.“So am I.”Under my palm, I can feel her staccato pulse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You do a much better job of hiding it than I,” I reply ruefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe I’ve just had more practice.”Allene smiles up at me and brings my hand up to her lips.She kisses my fingers, lips pressed gently to spaces between my second and third knuckles.When she lowers our hands she hesitates for a moment and then asks, “Have you not…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I have,” I reply hastily.“I just…”I sigh.With her eyes fixed on me like that and with the subject matter, I feel nearly queasy.“It has been a while.”I want so desperately for her to like me, to love me even, and it is hard not to feel ashamed — to feel like a failure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How long?” she asks.Her hands are warm around mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hunch forward.The palm of my free hand presses into the bridge of my nose.I can’t meet her eyes.“I don’t know,” I say weakly.“A few years, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look up just in time to catch her gobsmacked expression and I cringe away.“Sorry,” she says hurriedly, the expression falling from her face.“I just — that’s surprising.”She sucks in a breath and squeezes my hand.“I mean, you’re beautiful and you’re smart and you’re kind and, well, the title and everything don’t hurt either.”She waves her free hand towards me to indicate “everything.”“I would have thought you’d be actively fending off admirers on a daily basis.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug, a small laugh burbling from lips.“Maybe.”At that, she raises a brow and gives me a very slow, deliberate once over.I feel my face heat.“It’s complicated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well.”Allene takes a deep breath and draws herself up to her full height.“We do not need to do anything you are uncomfortable with.I am fine taking things at your pace,” she says resolutely.After a moment she shifts in place and eyes me speculatively.“However, I would very much like to kiss you some more.If that is amenable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, I laugh, and her face breaks into a wide grin.“Yes, I think that would be quite alright,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She drops my hand and steps into my space and places her hands on either side of my face.“Good,” she says.“Because you are looking profoundly kissable tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just tonight?” I tease.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Always,” she murmurs.She’s close enough now that her breath is a warm whisper across my skin.“It drove me positively insane during our travels.Trapped in a small space with you and nothing but time on our hands.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I reply articulately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs gently and then presses her lips to mine.It’s a sweet kiss, unhurried and easy.She’s careful with me in a way no one else ever has been.Her hands are warm against my face.She’s smiling, I can feel it, and I smile reflexively in response.When we part, we do not go far.There is a tenderness in the space where our breathing mingles.Her eyes open slowly, taking time to linger on my lips before she meets my gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed?” Allene murmurs softly.When her lips move, they brush mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” I answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I meant it when I said we could take this at whatever pace you need.”She sucks in a breath and then exhales it in a gust against my lips.“But I would love nothing more than to take you to bed tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The gentle warmth that has been steadily swelling within me suddenly blooms.My heart gives a pathetic, nervous flop.I can feel its beating in my throat, making it near impossible to speak.I hesitate, torn, my head dropping forward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene pats my cheek with one hand and smiles.“Maybe not the bed, then,” she says gently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe not yet,” I agree on an exhale, feeling both grateful for her words and embarrassed by my own gratitude.I do want it.I want her.Sometimes I want her desperately.And yet…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene eyes me with a hint of mischief.“What do you think about the lounge?” she says cheekily.She presses the tip of her finger to my sternum and draws coy little loops there.I glance beyond her to the long, plush couch near the fire.After a moment, I nod, still feeling rather tongue tied.“The lounge, then,” she says with a smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hands drop to circle mine and she walks backwards towards the couch, tugging me gently along with her.Allene sits me at the couch’s center and then settles on her knees alongside me.She keeps one of her hands around mine, but she raises the other to gently brush my hair from my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want you to know,” she says softly, “That you are already very dear to me.”She cups my face in her free hand and then leans down to kiss me gently once, then twice.“This does not change that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She draws back and smiles at me, her dark eyes alight with quiet affection.She brings our clasped hands up to her chest once more and presses my palm to her skin.Her pulse thrums through me.I feel it, strong and steady, through the beating in her chest and the pressure of her hand intertwined with mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I breathe, as if just saying her name could be enough to express the vast tenderness I feel for her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unable to articulate my feelings, I slide my free hand into the thick curls at the back of her head and draw her in for a kiss.She licks at my lips and when I yield, she advances.She coaxes my lips open and slips her tongue inside.She chases the taste of me, eager and gentle and cautious all at once. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene kisses like a prince in a storybook, gallant in her attentiveness to my needs.It’s funny, or perhaps foolish, that in my youth I had both dreamed of growing to become such a prince and that I had simultaneously dreamed of being found by one.She is so soft and warm and she smells so, so good.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tip of her broach is digging into the tender skin of my forearm and I try to ignore it, but when next she moves it stabs into the underside of my wrist.I flinch and she immediately withdraws.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she says breathily.“Are you alright?What’s wrong?Is this too much?”She’s breathing a little heavily.Her broach glints in the low light of the hearth’s fire as it matches the rise and fall of her bosom.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your broach,” I say with a laugh.“It was digging into my arm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Allene replies, looking relieved.“Well, that is easily solved.”She pulls the neckline of her dress forward, baring even more of her smooth, dark skin.I flush and hastily look away as her fingers fumble with the fastenings.“You needn’t look away,” she says slyly.I glance back to see her grinning at me, a generous swath of her bosom exposed, hints of lace peeking out in places.“Actually,” she continues, “You could help me, if you’d like.”At the look on my face, she lets out a brilliant laugh.“Too soon?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before I can reply, Allene has wrestled the broach free from her dress.She leans back and sets it on the low table beside the lounge before hurriedly returning to me.Still on her knees, one of her legs shifts to rest between mine.Unfulfilled heat is a friend I know well. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where were we?” she breathes, suddenly very close.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My heart makes a desperate clamoring in my chest.I feel so light and yet so very, very weak, as my body is simultaneously wracked by nerves and buoyed by happiness.I hope desperately that my hands don’t betray me as I bring them up to cup the back of her neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, yes,” she says as she fills my vision. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She kisses me again.With a thumb on my chin, she tilts my head back to better meet her as she leans over me.Allene’s mouth is slick and warm and insistent.One of her hands moves to cup my jaw while the other moves to fist in my hair.I feel clumsy and light headed in her arms, made needy by the languorous heat of her mouth.She tugs at my hair experimentally as her teeth scrape my bottom lip before she sucks it into her mouth.A low gasp falls from my lips.She grins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So lovely,” she says.She pats my cheek gently.Then she dives back in for more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is a very enthusiastic kisser.I think that since learning of my nervousness regarding certain forms of intimacy, she has determinedly made up her mind to kiss me as thoroughly as possible.She kisses like a cartographer mapping uncharted territory, eager to discover my hidden depths.My hands slide down from her shoulders to her thick waist and then to her hips.Allene makes an approving sound and settles herself into my lap.She is a warm weight against me, pinning me in place.There is something almost comforting about the pressure of her body over mine and the way she has me sandwiched between herself and the plush back of the lounge.The proximity of her is enthralling and intimidating.Heat blooms within me, an intractable force.Nervous as I am, I am only a man, and my body reacts eagerly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this okay?” she asks breathlessly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The deep blue velvet of her gown pools across my legs and spills down the side of the lounge.She straddles me casually, like it’s easy for her.There is a flame kindling within me and when the weight of her settles upon me, it flares.Her dress has ridden up on one side, exposing the tantalizing stretch of her stocking-clad leg.At the knee, I can see the lace of her drawers.When she shifts against me, her thigh rubs against my steadily swelling cock.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a huff of air that is half sigh, half groan.“Yes.Definitely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene smiles and leans in to press a kiss to my cheek.“Good,” she whispers, breath hot on my skin.Her hands have moved to my chest where they begin to fiddle absently with the clasps of my jacket.“I’d like to touch you.And to remove this.”She tugs at my jacket.“May I?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I nod, her clever hands begin to work, quickly undoing the clasps.Where my skin is bared, her lips follow, pressing light, gentle kisses to the stretch of my neck.With the fastenings undone, she pushes the jacket down my shoulders until I have to shimmy awkwardly to lose the rest of it.I am left in my long, simple tunic and trousers.She runs a hand over my chest and grazes my nipple through the fabric.I jolt with surprise.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Too much?” she asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She runs a finger down the fastenings of my tunic and then glances up to meet my eyes.I nod again and she removes that as well as my undertunic.I sit beneath her, bare chested and hot faced, as she takes in the sight of me.I don’t often think of my body.I know I am generally agreeable to look at, depending on one’s tastes.I also know that given my station and the wealth signified by that, my looks do not much matter.The way Allene’s eyes roam over me tells a different story.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is silent for a long time.Her hands trail along my skin, just the barest of touches, as if she’s afraid of scaring me away.It makes me shiver.When next she speaks, all she manages is, “Oof.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a bark of surprised laughter.“What?”By the time her eyes meet mine, she’s laughing too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she says.“But…”She gestures to my body before her.<em>“Damn.”</em>I turn aside and shove gently at her shoulder as I feel myself going red.“I’m serious,” she continues.She leans into me and presses a kiss to my jawline over my short beard.“Keeping all this to yourself is a crime against humanity.Personally, I would like to state my grievances to the court.”Her voice is muffled by my skin and her lips are warm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shoot her a bemused glance and find her grinning back at me.“Well,” I begin slowly.“Seeing as how the high court usually comprises my father and myself and several trusted officials, you are well on your way to that goal.”Her lips are at my jaw again.She slides down to my neck and gently scrapes her teeth against the exposed skin.It is exceedingly distracting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very good,” Allene replies with mock solemnity.“Then I am that much closer to receiving remunerations for the heinous offenses committed against my person.”Her thumb finds the nub of my nipple and she rubs it gently.I suck in a sharp breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What remunerations could you — could the plaintiff possibly expect in this situation?” I gasp out, not quite able to believe where our conversation has turned.The mood is shifting and while part of me laments the night we are curbing, I can’t help but feel a quiet relief as well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hand stills and her face scrunches.“Oh,” she breathes.She waggles her eyebrows at me.“I can think of <em>so</em> many things I’d like to receive from you.”Her voice is low and dripping with exaggerated prurience.I don’t know how much of it is genuine and how much is a joke.She holds my gaze for approximately six seconds before we both break down into fits of laughter.She collapses into me, her shoulders shaking as she giggles helplessly into my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is so deeply stupid,” I manage to gasp as my gut spasms with laughter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It really, truly is,” she agrees.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wrap my arms around her and let my head fall forward into her shoulder.The fire within me has settled into a gentle warmth.For the first time in ages, I feel very much at peace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I whisper.I turn my head so that my lips near her ear.She snakes her arms between us until she’s able to embrace me in turn.“For all of this.”She squeezes me gently but otherwise seems to have no intention of moving.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a few minutes spent quietly together, Allene mumbles into my chest, “Stay with me for a little longer?”Her long hair tickles my bare skin.She presses a kiss to my sternum.“We don’t need to do anything else.”Her voice is quiet, almost plaintive.“I just want to spend more time with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move one of my hands to cup the back of her head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like that,” I reply.I turn and press my lips to her forehead.“I’d like that very much.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she smiles, I feel the spread of it against my skin.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, i would like to thank you all for reading! spitfire is a passion project and is highly experimental on my end. before writing spitfire, i hadn't regularly written prose in about 8 years.  i've only been writing this thing for a little over 2 months now and when i went back to reread (and then edit) the first full chapter yesterday, i was blown back by how much my writing has already grown.  </p><p>thank you all for coming with me on this weird journey. i hope you're all having (almost) as much fun as i am!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. An Issue of Trust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a shorter chapter this time because i decided to split this one in half! so look forward to another feon section after this one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Feon</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is something deeply satisfying about being the first to leave.When I abandon Caed on the dance floor, I don’t need to see his face to feel the devastation left behind me, the tumult in his heart.It resounds through our Bond, a frantic plucking like the choppy, rolling waves just before a violent storm.This isn’t the first time I’ve taken pleasure in the chaos left in my wake, but it is the first time I have ever reveled in Caed’s anguish.The feeling does not last.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With an eye kept on my prince’s whereabouts, I slink my way along the side of the ballroom.I find a spot with a decent view of Caed — who has now rejoined Allene and Lysithea at the high table — and immediately oust whatever poor sap has the misfortune of occupying the seat I want.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Move,” I say flatly.I glare down at him, my lip curling into a sneer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What—“ he begins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The young man vacates his chair hastily.“Yes, of course, I am so <em>very</em> sorry, Lord Feon.Do please make yourself—“His voice cracks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take his seat and cut him off with a wave of my hand.“Go away.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The young man looks from me to the others occupying the table and then back to me.He swallows visibly.“Right,” he says.“Of course.You know, I think I fancy a round of dancing.Lady Nira, if you would do me the pleasure of—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes and slouch down in the chair.One of the young ladies at the table joins the recently ousted young lord and together they escape to the dance floor.My eyes track them as they round the high table, passing Caed’s seat.Lysithea makes a wide gesture with her hand before throwing herself dramatically across the back of her chair.Caed seems to be floundering for something to say to her.He looks lost.I <em>feel</em> lost, like I’ve been set adrift in an ocean of my own inner turmoil.I feel distinctly ill at ease in my own skin, like it no longer fits me quite right.I don’t regret causing Caed pain, not exactly, but I don’t feel good about it either.Even as hurt as I am, I don’t know if I will ever stop loving him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lord Feon…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My attention snaps back to my immediate surroundings.Apart from a single vacant chair across from me, the table’s seats are filled by a number of noble folk, all of them about my age or perhaps a bit younger.Though most of the faces are at best only vaguely familiar to me, the woman currently addressing me is one I am pretty certain I know.I just can’t remember <em>how.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I incline my head towards her slightly.She sits at my left, hands clasped in her lap, knees together, her feet neatly crossed beneath the folds of her soft cream palazzo pants, over which she wears a floor length anarkali jacket that joins only at the throat.She’s pretty, but not remarkably so.She has an imminently forgettable face that is distinct only in its perfect blandness, like someone assembled an aggregate of people and averaged all of them together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The woman smiles and deftly hefts a large pitcher of wine.Selecting an empty glass, she pours until it is filled to the brim with not a drop spilled.She slides the goblet across the table towards me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“To Your Grace’s health.”She raises a glass of her own and drinks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take the glass without comment and drain near a third of it.It’s syrupy and almost disgustingly sweet at the head and yet still doesn’t manage to mask the lingering bitter aftertaste.It feels like a terrible decision, so I drink more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Conversation resumes slowly.It’s awkward and ungainly, like the tottering of an infant just learning to walk on their chubby, untried legs.Every now and then, there are stilted attempts to draw me into the chatter, but I ignore them.The woman at my left doesn’t talk much herself.She smiles at the others mildly, only offering up her insipid opinions when directly asked, which isn’t often. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As my attention wanders, the prattle around me fades into the general texture of cheery chatter that fills the ballroom.I sit back in my chair and sip the offensively sweet wine.Through the moving figures of the crowd, I watch as Caed and Allene converse closely.Lysithea must have left at some point and now that they are alone, I suspect the betrothed are flirting.Disgusting.I scowl into my glass.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed just looks so damn <em>happy.</em>Before Allene’s arrival, Caed’s true smiles were rare treasures, lustrous jewels I hoarded jealously and with great pride.It was my <em>right.</em><em>I</em> was the one who could brighten his day, who could make him laugh despite himself, who could make him forget the heavy burden of responsibility, if only for just a moment.Then Allene waltzed in and <em>bam</em> — the vault was busted open and my trove drained dry, pilfered by an undeserving reprobate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene stands and Caed quickly follows suit.With narrowed eyes I track their progress across the grand ballroom.They look flushed and eager and I can feel Caed’s nervous excitement plucking at his heartstrings.The way they move together, it’s like Allene has my prince on a leash and he is anxious to keep on her heel, like a pathetic pup begging for validation.I’ve never seen Caed like this — lovestruck, dumb and desperate.It feels decidedly unnatural.It makes me sick.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have a thought then and it makes so much sense that I am furious for not thinking of it before.What if it <em>is</em> unnatural?Despite her uselessness in battle, Allene is a trained arcanist.She would have both the means and the capabilities to ensorcel my poor sap of a prince.Furthermore, after having spent weeks in her company, I believe she is bold enough to attempt something so deeply foolhardy as enchanting the crown prince of a foreign land.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, show us then, Pavani,” someone says imperiously.The speaker is a woman seated on the far side of the table.The distinct disbelief in her voice manages to cut through both the ambient chatter and the furious churning of my thoughts.She’s dressed in a violently yellow gown and her halo of springy curls bounces animatedly as she talks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To my left, the boring girl — Pavani, I suppose, and that name <em>does</em> sound familiar — smiles and produces a folded card from her jacket pocket.She opens it with care and sets it in the middle of the table.The woman in yellow snatches the card right up and holds it mere inches from her nose.Her eyes flit from one side of the card to the other.Her lips curl as she chews on her own repressed fury.After a long moment of silence, she slams the card back down on the table and shoves it away from herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Congratulations.”The woman in yellow sits back in her chair and taps the tips of her long, yellow lacquered nails on the surface of the table.“I’m <em>so</em> happy for you,” she says, not sounding happy at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” Pavani replies.She smiles blandly and when another lady wordlessly asks to look at the card, Pavani gestures her permission.She looks supremely unbothered by the irritation of the woman in yellow, which I think only serves to further her ire.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Pavani, I am <em>so</em> envious!” sighs another of the ladies.She stares down at the card for a long moment before passing it to the man at her right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man laughs as he looks it over.“As much as I’d like the opportunity to better ingratiate myself with our future queen, it <em>is</em> a relief to know I couldn’t possibly have been considered in the first place. Takes some of the sting out of not receiving an invite.”He grins cheekily back at the lady in yellow.She must kick him under the table because the next moment he winces and lets out a hissed curse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward surreptitiously and catch a glimpse of the card as it is left face up and open atop the table.It’s made from good quality paper, thick and with tooth, and its border is decorated by a frame of delicately drawn silver roses.Penned in the center in neat script are the words:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>You are cordially invited to a Ladies’ Tea Party hosted by Her Royal Highness Allene Yvonne Fidele Narissara Briallen</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beneath that is a date and location.I notice two things immediately: first, that this particular party is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon; and second, that the invitation is not addressed to anyone by name.As Pavani pockets the card, I feel the beginnings of an idea forming in the back of my mind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No matter what I think of Allene, I absolutely cannot bring my misgivings to the deeply infatuated Caed until I have something more substantial than instinct and speculation.Allene is on her best behavior when Caed is beside her.She’s far too clever to slip up while in his presence and as of yet I have not had cause to spend time alone with her.Doing so would likely elicit suspicion, as I have not been subtle in my disdain for her.But this… this gives me an opportunity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have found Allene’s motives suspect for some time.When our caravan first returned to Nadara, I discovered Allene poking around in parts of the palace she had no business being in.I followed her then, but in my haste to discover her goal, I was less stealthy than I ought to have been. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene caught me out — though luckily she never discovered it was me.My dear, sweet, besotted prince then made the decision to increase her guard.I’ve attempted to tail her twice since, but that new guard with the violently yellow hair has an infuriatingly keen ear and so my efforts were quickly abandoned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed will not be at a ladies’ tea party.I suspect that Allene’s guards will be, but I do not think they will be on high alert and, regardless, I have means of evading their suspicion.Caed is the only one I can never fool and this promises me a definitive time and location where Allene will not be by his side.What I <em>don’t</em> have is an invitation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I’m puzzling out how to get an invitation of my own, Lysithea slides into the empty seat across from me.“Feon,” she says with much the same tone one might use to say “rat droppings” or “dog vomit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lysithea,” I return with equal fondness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sad,” she says, her tone casual.“That the other half of your matched set seems to have abandoned you.”She inspects her nails with artfully affected boredom.“Loyalty just isn’t what it used to be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You must be desperate to willingly search me out at a party,” I reply, baring my teeth in her direction.“Was your courtship that thoroughly rejected or are you just extremely bored?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For a moment, Lysithea is silent, all the words sucked out of her.She looks stunned, her mouth pulled into a tight pucker like she’s just eaten a pickled plum.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward.“I’m right, aren’t I?” I ask, my voice rising giddily.At the look on her face, I throw my head back and cackle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea glares at me openly, for once unable to keep her cool.“Yes, well, I imagine you must be doing <em>splendidly, </em>judging by your choice of company.”Her eyes sweep dismissively across the stunned faces of the people between us.“What, did you grow tired of yapping at your prince’s heels, begging for scraps of attention?You’re <em>pathetic.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The insult burns.I don’t know what’s worse — that she’s right or that earlier I had much the same thought about Caed.Sun’s grace, I’d rather bathe in acid than share Lysithea’s nasty brain wyrms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shoot to my feet.My face is hot and red.I gnash my teeth.“Why are you <em>here, </em>Lysithea?”I demand.“Clearly, you hate the lot of us and the feeling is mutual.You have no business being here and, frankly, you are <em>not</em> welcome.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea is on her feet now.She opens her mouth to retort, but I barrel on, cutting her off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever you’ve told Allene or the king — I don’t believe it.No one in their right mind would send your family here without expecting catastrophe,” I hiss. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She strides towards me.Her eyes are silvery and sharp like the point of a blade.I don’t relent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shouldn’t you be in Ogren?Or Voswain?Tracking down fairies or mermaids or whatever inane bullshit you’re <em>supposed </em>to be doing.Clearly, it must not be very important if you can take time off just to annoy me — and I can’t think of any other reason for you to be here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea stops just short of me.She’s so close that I can feel the hiss of her breath on my face as her nostrils flare.I watch as her hand jerks towards the rapier belted to her waist.Her hand freezes in the air just above the hilt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My voice has not gone unnoticed — all about the hall, people have turned to watch us.I am suddenly very aware of how painfully public our confrontation has become.If Caed were here to see me fucking up so thoroughly, he’d have a conniption.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a moment of indecision — a breath’s span during which two futures are imminently viable.Lysithea could draw on me here in the middle of the grand ballroom and, selfishly, I would welcome it.Even knowing how devastating the fallout could be, I would take any excuse to fight her, to exhaust this lingering frustration in my blood.Or she could find some way to diffuse the tension. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea’s flinty eyes catch mine.There is a hunger in her gaze, a craving for violence that I understand deeply.The thought of rending the flesh from her hideous bones sings sweet in my mind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She chooses the second option.With a surprisingly convincing force of false enthusiasm, she drops her hand away from her blade and instead throws her arm around my shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You little fucker,” she says, feigning affection.The people around us visibly relax.Lysithea pulls me into a headlock and grounds the knuckles of her free hand into my skull.Scowling, I let it happen.“If you miss me, you can just say so,” she says loudly and with pointed clarity. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chatter slowly picks up around us as the crowd’s attention wanes.Eventually, I wriggle out of Lysithea’s grasp.We stare at each other awkwardly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” I mumble.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea grins and leans in close.“What was that?” she asks smugly, a hand held up to her ear.“It’s rather loud in here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glare at her.It is only due to my deeply kind and mature nature that I am able to continue.“Not that you didn’t deserve it, but I may have fucked up a bit.”Lysithea rolls her eyes.She stands before me, hands on her hips, one foot tapping impatiently.“Solene’s tits, fine, you saved both our asses, can you look a little less smug about it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s that?” Lysithea says innocently, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.“I not only single handedly diffused the next war between our peoples, but I also prevented a future murder?”I frown at her, confused.“Your prince would have your head if you’d actually managed to start that level of shit tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I groan and raise my hands to cover my eyes.“Fuck.Don’t remind me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I lower my hands, Lysithea is picking boredly at her nails.She glances up and meets my eyes.“So,” she says a little too casually.“Truce?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare back at her, my brow furrowed.She sighs and leans in close, her hand moving to my shoulder.I definitely don’t flinch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look,” she continues, voice low.“I fucking hate you, but I think for once our motives are in accord.”She has the pinched look of someone deliberately sticking their hand into a pool of piranhas.“I have a month.”Her lips purse.“I have a month before they get married and —“Here, she cuts herself off, but I think I get the idea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” I say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Neither of us want this—“ Lysithea continues.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” I interrupt.“I agree already, you don’t have to keep going.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.”She looks rather taken aback.“Alright.”She pats my shoulder awkwardly and straightens up.“That was much easier than anticipated.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift uncomfortably, uncertain if I should shake her hand or something to seal the deal.My arm jerks up instinctually, but she just rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck’s sake, don’t shake my hand, it’ll look like we’re up to something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t we, though?” I ask, miffed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but we don’t want people to <em>know</em> that.”She’s absolutely insufferable, but she’s also right.I release an irritated huff of breath.“Look, I’ll see you around, Feon.Try not to royally fuck up before we have a chance to strategize.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, she turns and leaves.Lysithea definitely has an invitation to Allene’s Ladies Only Tea Party tomorrow.I could likely have asked her to procure one for me.But something stopped me.We may have called a temporary truce, but I don’t much like the idea of revealing all my cards to her just yet, if ever. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand awkwardly for a few moments before turning back to the table beside me.The occupants are engrossed in a thoroughly dull conversation and are very pointedly trying to look as if they were not just trying to eavesdrop.I scowl down at the lot of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You,” I say, gesturing at Pavani.She smiles blandly up at me.“Dance with me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She rises to her feet like a wave of beige.“My Lord,” she says, “It would be my pleasure.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The journey from the dance floor to her bedroom takes less time than I had expected.Several songs in, Pavani is pleasantly flushed and laughing, baby hairs plastered to her face by a fine layer of sweat.Her hand finds the curve of my shoulder and our eyes meet.She bites her lip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few minutes later, we’re in her room.It’s small relative to my own chambers and the decor has about as much personality as her clothing, but it also bears the distinct look of a space that is lived in rather than borrowed.She must number amongst the courtiers who live in the palace for most of the year rather than those who have been allotted rooms for their temporary stay.No wonder she looks familiar.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We tumble into her neat, cream colored sheets for some thoroughly uninspired sex.She’s not bad exactly, but there’s nothing particularly memorable about the experience.It’s only when I’m coming against the swell of her (surprisingly generous) ass that I recognize her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She has a birthmark there that I swear rather resembles the depictions I’ve seen of Solene, first of the Bond.There’s even a hint of Koel’s wing behind the splotchy, misshapen curtain of her hair.It’s too unique and specific to be forgettable and now I remember <em>exactly</em> who she is.Pavani’s father manages the royal pantry.Their family has lived here for years.When I was ten, she had a big horrible crush on Caed, which he did not outright reject, and so later I incinerated one of her favorite dolls.And Pavani and I have done this bedroom dance before.Several times.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Pavani falls asleep, I slide silently out of her bed, careful to disturb the mattress as little as possible.I find our abandoned clothing several feet from the bed and dress myself quickly.Then I squat down and rifle through her jacket until I find the invitation stowed within.I pocket the card and stand.With a glance about the room, I hasten quietly towards the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hand on the knob, I pause, struck by a sudden thought.I turn slowly on my heel and survey the room.There, on the far side, is a tall wardrobe.I approach it, careful to step quietly.I open first the large doors at the wardrobe’s head, and within I find a sturdy rod upon which is hung a number of gowns and skirts: anarkalis, lehengas, houppelandes, gamurras, giorneas, all of them in shades ranging from off white to cream to beige to brown.With my options in mind, I leave the doors gaping wide and kneel to open the top drawer.It contains an assortment of neatly folded chemises and other undergarments.I hastily close it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next two drawers contain blouses and trousers.I select several items from each and drape them easily over my arm.The gowns and skirts from the upper shelf present somewhat more of an issue.They’re heavy and delicate and, worst of all, bulky.I can only grab so many before my arms are laden high with lengths of beaded and embroidered fabric that spill over either side of my hold.Vision partially obscured, I gently nudge the wardrobe doors shut with my shoulder until they meet and click into place.I wait a moment to make sure the small sound didn’t rouse Pavani before tiptoeing back across the room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door leading out to the rest of the palace presents a problem I was not anticipating.I stoop slightly and try to angle myself so that the pile of clothing rests against my torso.I pivot one hip forward and fumble around blindly for the door handle, doing my best to keep the length of that arm level so that the ungainly garment bundle doesn’t shift too much and threaten toppling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fail several times, my fingers scrabbling against the smooth surface of the handle, and end up with my fabric hoard squished between the weight of my body and the door.It takes a stupidly long time to get the blasted thing open.By the time I’m out in the hall, I’m gritting my teeth in irritation, my nostrils are flared, and my ego is bruised.I kick the door shut behind me and flinch at the slick thud it makes.I’m a fucking idiot.I don’t wait around to see if it woke Pavani.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stride through the halls as quickly as can be reasonably explained and hope I don’t meet anyone along the way.I’ve faced down a manticore.I’ve fought off multiple attempts on my prince’s life.My heart should not be set racing by the act of walking down empty corridors with an armful of stolen women’s clothing.My stupid body doesn’t seem to care about any of this.I’m jumpy as all hell, like a rabbit in fox territory.I gnash my teeth in frustration, hating how utterly ridiculous I feel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I make it scott free until I round the corner off the stairway and come face to face with a startled looking servant bearing a tea tray.I stop suddenly, coming just short of running face first into him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Apologies, Your Grace,” he says instantly, his eyes dropping to the floor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pile of garments shifts unsteadily in my arms.I exhale a muffled curse into an expanse of heavily embroidered silk and wriggle my arms until my burden is settled more comfortably.The servant hastily steps out of my way and continues down the hallway in the opposite direction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I release a held sigh and continue on to my chambers.Strangely, I feel much more relaxed now that I’ve gotten that over with.I got caught and nothing of consequence happened.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That is, until the door to Caed’s chambers opens directly in front of me.I freeze.I feel like my gut has dropped into my shoes.If Caed sees me, I’m fucked.My head whips around as I search desperately for an out, an alcove, somewhere to hide before I’m seen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon.”The voice is gruff, stern.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m too slow. All the air leaves me like a punch to the gut.With trepidation, my head turns slowly back around to face forward and I see — the king.Thank the fucking sun.The door falls shut and he approaches me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re for Allene,” I lie hastily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am glad to see you getting along,” King Rynnwald replies.When he draws level with me, he lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently.He’s close enough that I can smell the soft spiciness of him, like honey and nutmeg and cloves.He smells like the holidays and like home.And better than that, he seems to have bought my bullshit.I relax immediately.“I was worried you might guard my son’s affections jealously.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guilt nibbles tentatively at the corner of my heart.I shift uncomfortably in place.His gray-brown eyes search my face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I understand the impulse,” he says quietly.“Try to not let it be more than that.”He pats my shoulder and continues down the hall.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once he’s rounded the corner I all but run to the door to my rooms.No more chances.I make it inside and dump my bounty unceremoniously on the floor of my parlor before running into my bedroom and flopping down onto the soft mattress.Its downy stretch sinks beneath my weight, causing some of my hoard to slide up against me.The blankets are cool against my hot face.I exhale a breath that stirs the curls that have flopped onto my forehead.I shift until the gem that’s poking uncomfortably into my side is no longer doing so.Sleep takes me out like a sledgehammer to the face.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise early, groggy and mildly hungover.Still, the vague pressure in my head can’t quash the anticipation singing through my blood.Were I truly human, I likely would find myself incapacitated from last night’s drinks, but I am not quite so fragile.I slide out of bed.The <em>ping ping ping</em> of golden coins falling to the floor behind me is sweet to my ears.I strip off last night’s clothing and rush through my morning ablutions, too excited about my plan to linger over the wash basin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fetch my stolen bounty from the parlor and drop it all in a pile on my bedroom floor.I have to shove a few things out of the way with my foot in order to do so.Before me is a floor length mirror that stretches wide enough for three to stand abreast before it.Hands on my hips, I behold myself in all my naked human-shaped glory: my dewy, freckled skin, the gentle swell of my lips, the quiet promise of supple muscles in my arms and legs.It has been a while since I last took time to examine this human side of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As a dragon of the Bond, there are certain privileges awarded me.Foremost is the ease with which I am able to shift my body.It is not a simple matter to exist in a form other than your own.Those first years after I took the mark were often hellish.That day when the Bond was formed, I shifted on instinct, my body changing to form a mirror image of Caed’s, were it sculpted from golden scale.We were children and we were both grappling with the sudden onslaught of emotion that comes from irreparably entwining your very essence with that of another.Changing was not so easy after that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shifting is simpler when the beginning and ending forms are similar: similar in size, in color, in material, in function, in essence.Changing from one sort of human to another is a relatively small matter.You take the clay from which you were molded and you nudge it until your body fits the shape you desire.Shifting from dragon to human requires the unmaking of yourself.It’s like beginning as a sword when your aim is to become a fine metal chain.You must be disassembled and melted and refined before you can be reforged and reformed into something so delicate and small.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I had a map before me: Caed’s body, warm and soft and vulnerable, his heart tethered to mine.I could approximate his shape, the general <em>himness</em> of his body.I could not hold to this form for very long and, perhaps more importantly, I had not yet learned to replicate its functions.My fleshy human body was soft and weak and so very sensitive.Everything was too much: too loud, too bright, too cold.My teeth felt strange and blunt and unreliable.My skin didn’t sit right over the bones and muscles I had improvised.Eating was excruciating.Excreting was worse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was alone in my transformation, stumbling blindly through the subtle intricacies of human anatomy without a guide.In his wisdom, King Rynnwald formulated a solution before I was even capable of properly vocalizing the problem (as, at the time, I was still struggling with human speech).The king brought a patient healer to instruct me in the construction of the human form.The healer brought bodies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a testament to Caed’s deep and pervasive kindness that he stayed with me through many of those lessons.He sat huddled in the corner, his face pale and tinged with green, as I studied ligaments and cartilage and organs.He full on barfed when I pawed carefully through human entrails.He gave me a tight, petrified smile, his brow shining with nervous sweat, when after weeks of failed attempts I managed to turn my fleshy human skin the color of glass so that Teacher could better inspect my work. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I studied being human nearly every day.My lessons had a strict deadline: I only had so much time before my true body would grow too large to comfortably fit in most rooms.As Caed’s companion, his protector, his Bonded, I could not limit my time at his side based on the openness of his surroundings.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was two years old when I first opened my eyes to Caed’s dear face.I was four when we became Bonded.It took me until I was seven to form a body that met teacher’s approval.It wasn’t until I was twelve that I managed to hold that body for a full waking day.Now it’s like breathing: it’s only strange when I think about it.I can even keep my human form through slumber.True shifting of the sort I do — long lasting, innate, without trickery or illusion — is something most of my kind can only achieve after decades of effort.Even then, they would not feel nearly so natural in human skin, not without the Bond that keeps me tethered to Caed in all his humanness through magic and love alike.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I draw a finger across the line of my jaw, down the curve of my neck, until the oval tip rests at the crest of my sternum, where my Bond mark begins.It’s a deep, faded red, a hint of blood once spilled.The marks are thick and crude.They emanate from just beneath my shoulders and then spread in gentle arcs that join and twist at the base of my sternum.The lower portion funnels into a sharp arrow while the higher shoots up until it hits the juncture between my reaching clavicles.The mark engenders the abstract idea of a dragon’s form, its head pointed down towards my navel, its wings spread wide across my chest and shoulders.It is the mark that Caed gave me, the mark that wordlessly proclaims our Bond to the world.It is the one part of my body I am absolutely unable to alter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press the tips of my fingers to each corner of my jaw.It has been a long time since I last altered my human appearance.I don’t often have much use for it.I focus on the feeling at my fingertips, the variance in sensation as I press against bone and muscle and nerve.It doesn’t take much to alter a face.It is a matter of millimeters: a subtle shift of bone at the jaw and brow, a light addition of fat over the cheeks.The cartilage of the nose is the easiest.Harder are the eyes, which require a careful shifting of bone and muscle and organ all at once.I fold my hands around the curve of my neck and let sensation be my guide as my body molds itself to suit my needs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a gentle act of give and take.I cannot alter my overall mass too much without experiencing discomfort, at least for a time.I narrow my shoulders and waist, but keep the muscle in my arms and legs.I compensate for the losses in certain areas by adding to others.I take my hands to my hair and pull until it falls in long golden waves beneath my shoulders.By the time I am satisfied with my changes, I have a pair of truly magnificent tits and an ass that could launch a thousand ships.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I inspect myself critically in the mirror.I look hot.I turn so I can get a good view of my ass.<em>Very</em> hot.If I saw me out in the wild, I’d definitely bone myself.I face the mirror again and put a contemplative hand to my chin.When my arm moves, it presses into the swell of my breast.It’s a strange feeling, finding something where there should be nothing.It’s disconcerting but not unpleasant, much like discovering an unexpected litter of kittens tucked away in a corner of the swiftwyrm stables. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wonder if I might look <em>too</em> good.Too good to be human, anyway.Frowning, I rake my hands through the new lengths of hair that spill over my shoulders.The color of my hair and eyes — <em>especially </em>my eyes — is much too distinct and decidedly not human.I scrunch up my face in concentration as I hone my focus down to pigment.Color work is incredibly subtle and I’ve never been much good at it.It’s just too fucking tedious. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare intently at the mirror, narrowing my attention to just my left eye.Slowly, painfully slowly, darkness spreads from my pupil, a slow ripple of rich brown that bleeds into the rest of the iris.My right eye is less receptive.It ends up more amber than the brown I’m looking for.I lean back from the mirror to assess my work from further away.From a distance it’s not <em>terribly</em> noticeable.It’s probably fine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hair is an ordeal all its own, and before long I’m cursing my lack of practice with shifting pigments.I have to work on my hair in sections and there’s so damn much of it.I’d make it shorter, but it already took ages to get it to this length and undoing all of that work would be frustrating as all hell.Too many minutes later, my brow is lined with a fine layer of sweat and I’ve resigned myself to keeping my changes subtle.I had planned to transform all my hair to a light brown, but several inches down the first section of hair, I decided that was <em>not</em> happening.I settled for darkening my hair from the root to several inches down.For the rest of it, I settled for dulling its luster, hoping it would be enough to convincingly resemble a natural, human blonde color.It still took fucking forever, but it took considerably less time than it would have otherwise.I think it’s enough.I <em>hope</em> it’s enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have no idea how long I’ve been at this, but I feel exhausted already and I feel much in need of a break.With that idea in mind, I decide to test my work thus far.I press my fingers to the soft tissue beside my armpits and feel about, prodding and probing the layers of fat and muscle until I’m satisfied they’re all as they’re supposed to be.After giving my body a perfunctory once over with my hands, I begin stretching, testing the pull and strain of ligaments and muscles in the new configuration of my body.Once satisfied, I jog in place for a couple minutes before moving on to jumping jacks.This, I think, is a terrible mistake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Holy <em>fuck,” </em>I croak. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hands fly up to cup my new (maybe somewhat too large) breasts, as if holding them now will relieve the pain brought on by the sudden assertion of gravity.My tits <em>ache.</em>Tits are wonderful, glorious things — maybe the only proof that could conceivably point towards the existence of some sort of higher power out there.But this?This is hell.This is betrayal. This is a fucking <em>scam.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smarting both emotionally and physically, I fetch a set of small clothes from my dresser.I pull the simple shorts on over my newly widened hips.I’ve left my dick be for now.I haven’t entirely decided what to do with it just yet.I don’t <em>think</em> I am likely to end up in a situation where it is likely to — hah — <em>come up, </em>but you never know.More than anything, reforming it would be both incredibly annoying and time consuming.Still, a boner is as a boner does.I’ll make a decision later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull the undergarment’s drawstring tight and tie it off and then bend down and pick through the pile of clothing until I find a promising pair of off white trousers.They’re wide-legged and flowy with a long strip of fabric that ties at the waist.When I stand with my legs together, it almost looks like I’m wearing a skirt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find a matching blouse, a simple band that fastens at the back.When I do up the clasps and attempt to pull the top down over my shoulders, I am met with a large problem — or rather, two large problems.For the second time this morning, I have been betrayed by my new (very nice) tits.I discard the first top and try another with much the same results.Several minutes later, I have exhausted all my options and have come to the sad conclusion that the tits must go.I take a moment to silently lament this tragedy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time I have reshaped myself to accommodate my available blouses and the tingling in my tissue has dissipated, I’m only mildly sorrowful about my loss.Fuck Pavani and her utter lack of tits and fuck me for fucking her.At the very least, it will be easier to move this way.It’s a poor consolation for a terrible sacrifice.I do up the clasps and wriggle into the blouse and wonder vaguely how the hell so many women put up with wearing garments that fasten in the back.It’s annoying as hell. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I root through the clothing pile and look for something to wear overtop the other clothing.I pull out a sheer dupatta shawl with a gold border.I battle with it for a few minutes, trying to remember how I’ve seen women at court draping theirs recently.When I face the mirror, I discover another unforeseen problem: my Bond mark.Although much of it is covered, the outermost portions show where my clothing cuts away like a shy child peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts.My Bond mark is distinctive — it’s meant to be.It’s been used for generations.It’s a symbol to our people.It’s the crest emblazoned upon our flag.I can’t risk anyone seeing it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Panicking slightly, I turn over the pile of clothing in a frenzy.It takes me several minutes to sort what I have into three distinct piles: first, items like skirts and trousers that do not cover my torso at all; second, clothing that covers my torso, but does not entirely cover my Bond mark; and third, garments that cover my torso and shoulders, therefor completely obscuring the mark.This last category is depressingly modest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have a cream colored anarkali jacket with a high collar and three quarter sleeves and that’s it.At least it looks nice enough.It’s well made and pretty in a “this was made to be as non-offensive as possible” sort of way.It’s a garment that has been purposefully constructed to make as little of a statement as possible.The jacket cinches just below the bust and then falls loose to halfway down the shin.When I pull it on, I am pleased and relieved to find that the skirt is not so full that it battles the silhouette of the trousers.With the dupatta draped over my left side, the pleats pinned at the shoulder, it all actually manages to look like a convincingly intentional outfit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As for the rest of my stolen bounty, I spend several minutes cursing Pavani’s diligence, as she has apparently already shifted her wardrobe in preparation for summer.Most of her blouses are cut so that the neckline just skims the décolletage and those few items with higher necklines lack sleeves.Whatever, I’m good for today.I’ll figure the rest out later — if there is a later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The ancient clock in the parlor chimes the hour and I realize with a chill that despite my early rise, I have spent so many hours toiling away on the minutiae of my new appearance that I am already late for tea.I blink dazedly and glance out of the window to make certain there hasn’t been some mistake, that the clock hasn’t malfunctioned as I can’t have spent <em>that</em> much time laboring in front of the mirror, but sure enough the sky outside is bright and clear and the sun is high overhead.I must be even rustier than I thought to have taken so long. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rush to the door, open it, step one foot out and then stop.I turn back and rush to where last night’s clothing lays crumpled on the floor of my bedroom and shove my hands down the pockets until I find the invitation.I’d nearly forgotten it.Relieved, I stuff it into the pocket of my anarkali and run back out the door.This is going to be an absolute shit show, but as long as it’s a shit show that gets results, I don’t care.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>wow i can't believe i'm already past 90k words on this thing!! thank you all so much for reading. </p><p>if you are enjoying spitfire, please consider spreading the word!  this is a project i make purely for fun on my own time.  i do not have a budget or an editor or anything like that and this is actually my first time seriously writing prose in about a decade.  it is also my first time writing anything since i discovered my dyslexia.</p><p>i am so grateful to all my friends who have taken the time to beta my work and to all of you for reading as well!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Etiquette</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey! i've been delaying uploading this chapter because for the past few days i've been using my social media presence only to share information and resources for the recent BLM protests. before reading this chapter, please consider donating to BLM or your local bail bond fund.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even moving at a brisk pace, I’m at least a full fifteen minutes late once I finally manage to power walk across the grounds to the Royal Conservatories.The conservatories are a series of massive, free standing structures of iron and glass arranged artfully just south of the palace.The central building is the largest of them all, and so of course that is my destination.I have discovered in a very short time that Allene does nothing by half measures.The noonday sunlight reflects off the domed greenhouse’s curvature, forming a partial halo of golden brilliance like the sun in eclipse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pause several feet from the door to catch my breath.A gentle breeze flirts with the folds of my diaphanous wide-legged pants.The air is pleasantly cool against the fine layer of sweat I’ve accumulated.Perhaps Pavani had the right idea shifting her wardrobe for summer already.After hastening across the length of the palace and then the lawn, I’m feeling rather warm in my stiff-collared anarkali.The damp hair at the base of my skull sticks unpleasantly to the back of my neck.I raise an arm to wipe at the sweat on my brow with the cuff of my pale cream-colored sleeve.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The conservatory door opens and Allene’s new guard — Hailey or Hazel or Hal or something like that — steps out.In my mind, they’re still Daffodil.Today they’ve chosen to pull back the top half of their bright yellow-orange hair into a little bun at the back of their head.It makes the new growth of unbleached hair at their scalp look like a dark starburst.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you in need of assistance, my lady?” Daffodil asks.Against the deep ochre of their skin, the whites of their eyes are keen and bright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, thank you,” I say, still slightly short of breath, and step forward.I reach a hand into my pocket and fetch my invitation, which I brandish with elan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah.”They take the card in hand and look it over appraisingly.“Very good, then.Allow me to lead the way, if you would.”Daffodil opens the door for me and ushers me through.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Entering the grand conservatory is like stepping into a small pocket of Ogren that has been picked up and transported hundreds of miles to the southwestern coast.The greenhouse is dense with an overwhelmingly lush, verdant sprawl.The smell of it is thick in my nose, heavy with the dripping sweetness of ripe fruit, the clean wet scent of plant life just after rain, the heady musk of fresh dirt.Vines crawl up the steel beams of the outer walls as well as the stone columns that are peppered about within, clinging to any surface that will bring them closer to the sun’s radiance.Insects buzz, laying a low drone to accompany the chortling of brightly colored songbirds.The flood of greenery has the distinct look of wilderness that would very much like to crowd out its human occupants but has not yet succeeded, as if it has only barely been tamed and is not particularly pleased about that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Daffodil leads me down a neat path paved with an intricate pattern of artisan tiles.It veers away from several other branching tracks, cutting straight down the middle of the greenhouse.Every now and then, I feel the brush of a leaf or frond against my shoulder like soft, reaching hands.Greenery grows thick overhead, arcing across the path and throwing us into shade.The air is warm and wet.Moisture clings to my skin and hair and by the time the pathway opens up again I’m feeling somewhat damp and rather claustrophobic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before us is a large pool set within a clearing in the overwhelming sprawl.It sits at the center of the conservatory raised two handspans above ground level.Overhead, the steel beams of the ceiling arc and meet, converging into a symmetrical flower design embedded in the glass dome’s apex.Below this midpoint, reaching almost halfway to the ceiling, is a statue, which rises from the center of the pool’s green-blue waters.Its head sits about level with the upper reaches of the greenery surrounding it — and it is a head, for the statue is of a woman.She is Solene, First Bonded, First of the Blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Solene stands proudly contrapposto upon the rocks, one leg bent to account for the uneven footing.She is wreathed in delicately carved folds of draped cloth that hang loose from her shoulders before cinching at the waist.The sculpture is executed with such a tenderness, with such an exquisite detail, that though she is wrought from sun-bleached stone interlaced with veins of glittering gold, I can believe that somehow a breeze plucks at the delicate folds of her dress, baring a leg.Solene holds a spear before her, a diagonal slash across her body, its butt held firmly in a hand beside her hip.Her other arm is raised, the elbow bent, the hand delicately grasping the spear just under its head.The spear’s tip is wreathed in real flame that flickers and dances, somehow bright even in the noonday sun’s refracted light.Solene’s head is tilted to one side, as if she is peering over that shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the woman’s bared feet is the head of her dragon, Koel.He curls protectively around her, his long neck circling the wide plinth of rough stone upon which she stands.The dragon is wrought from the same stone as she, but interspersed amongst his scales are inlays of precious gems — gold and ruby and citrine and the like.Koel’s lithe body coils tightly around the stone, sinking along its circumference until he is submerged in the water.Across the pool’s surface, intermingled with the flourishing lilies and their pads, stretches of stone crest the waters, draconic spikes punching into open air to hint at the rest of Koel’s magnificent body.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A bee drifts lazily through the air before me, drunk on nectar.From several paces ahead, Daffodil clears their throat politely.I startle to attention.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Beautiful, isn’t it?” they ask with a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was affected much the same when I first saw it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod absently and follow the guard as they begin moving, guiding me down the path on the far side of the clearing.I’ve seen this statue before — many times, in fact.It doesn’t matter, it arrests me still.There is a sensitivity in the stonework, a palpable affection in the gentle yet determined curve of Solene’s lips, in the fierce adoration of Koel’s gaze.I was told when I was young that it was a statue commissioned several generations ago to show the Bond at the heart of our country, the Bond that unified a disparate and desperate people, from which emerged a prosperous nation lead by wise leadership.I think it depicts a deep and pervasive love, the sort that saturates your very blood until there is no individual, no sense of self without that love.Obviously the sculptor, whoever they were, never knew Koel or his human, but I suspect they had very strong notions about those of the First Bond.I also suspect the artist to be a woefully sentimental sap.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our path curves and splits.Daffodil leads me down the right trail.There is a second clearing at the back end of the conservatory and here is where Allene has arranged to have tea.It’s a surprisingly large space, set into an alcove that protrudes from the rest of the structure’s silhouette.The clearing is hemmed by the reaching branches of many fruit trees — orange, lemon, persimmon, passionfruit, pear, and peach, amongst others.The air is ripe with fragrance, like the olfactory equivalent of biting into a succulent fruit: the sweet give of its tender flesh under your teeth, the delicious indulgence as its juices spill forth over tongue and skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sat in the clearing is a long rectangular table, upon which is an array of delicate floral centerpieces.The table is covered with a pale pink cloth with corners folded so sharply, so precisely, they could take out an eye.At the table sit twenty or so young ladies of repute, most of whom I know at least by sight, and at their head is Allene, with Lysithea at her right hand.As Daffodil and I approach, heads turn, and the soft hum of polite conversation fades.I glance down the length of the table and note that there is only one empty seat left and it is the one at the other head of the table, furthest from Allene.Shit.How am I supposed to gather evidence against her if I can’t get anywhere near her?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When none of the seated ladies speaks first, Daffodil clears their throat and says, “It is my pleasure to introduce Lady…”They drift off and give me an apologetic look as they lean towards me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fe—“ I begin immediately before catching myself, appalled at my own stupidity.All that work and I nearly gave myself away in the first minute!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” Daffodil says crisply and gestures to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sink into my best approximation of a curtsy.One of the ladies at the table titters.Her laugh rises shrill and sharp against the low buzz of the false forest around us.I rise and grit my teeth in a smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Apologies for my lateness, Your Highness,” I say, trying to pitch my voice as I’ve heard real ladies of the court speak. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The amassed dule of dames looks me over assessingly.Some look curious or amused, others seem annoyed or disinterested.Allene smiles at me obligingly as if waiting for me to continue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was just so <em>excited</em> to be invited that I could not for the life of me fall asleep last night and so I overslept!” I blurt out before the silence can stretch too awkwardly.Sometimes a quick lie is better than a good one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs, hearty and amused.“Well, we are all of us glad to have you join us at last, Lady Fae.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She gestures towards the far end of the table and, recognizing the dismissal, I stride towards it.As I move, I catch sight of Lysithea’s head turning to watch me.Her eyes are narrowed consideringly.I hasten to my seat and once I am sitting, I duck my head down so that I am obscured from her view, her vantage blocked by an overzealous arrangement of pink and white flowers that froth up eagerly from within a tall golden vase.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I chance a peak around the centerpiece, I see that Allene is engrossed in conversation with Clemence, who is seated at her left.Sieglinde stands at ease several paces behind Allene.I don’t see Daffodil.I brave a glance towards Lysithea.She’s leaned forward, her chin resting languidly upon the gentle curl of her hand.Her eye catches mine and then flicks down the length of me.I feel rooted to the spot.When she meets my gaze again, her lips pull slowly into a deadly smirk.Shit, I think she might be on to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A plate is shoved indelicately before me and I jump, startled.“Lady Fae,” says the woman to my right.There is a lilt to her voice and she draws out every syllable as if the letters are thick on her tongue.She smells sweet and floral.I turn towards her and have to take a minute to gawk with abandon at the most spectacularly large set of tits I have ever seen.“Sandwich?” she asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Raising my eyes to her face requires a monumental feat of inner strength.When my gaze meets hers, she is smiling at me mildly.She has an open and profoundly unbothered face, like an old dog that is content to lay by the fire rather than bother to seek a master’s approval.Pale hair falls thin and flat from her scalp like limp cabbage.I accept the dish from her wordlessly and take several bitesized sandwiches and deposit them on my plate without looking.I hand the serving dish back to her and she picks a sandwich delicately from it with her thumb and two fingers and casually shoves it into her mouth.The tips of her index and middle fingers breach the pucker of her lips and she sucks on them lazily, never once breaking eye contact with me.When at last her fingers draw away from her mouth, they are ringed by the pale pink stain of her lip paint.I stare, transfixed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” I croak belatedly.My mouth runs dry.I feel as if my brain is suspended in molasses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To my left, someone looses a derisive snort.I startle, suddenly made very aware of my staring and of the swell of my cock against my inner thigh.Red faced, I hasten to divert my attention.As much as I would like nothing more than to bed this woman, there is other business at hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really, Eugenia, you can’t go <em>five seconds</em> without throwing yourself at a new face?” the other woman asks scornfully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The woman on my left is one I am familiar with, in that she has something of a reputation for being rather eccentric.Her skin is at once dark and ashen, like driftwood bleached by sun and salt.Her black locs hang straight at either side of her face, framing her scowl like curtains that threaten to close prematurely on a lackluster performance.She is dressed entirely in black from the high collar of her frilly blouse, to the ribbon tied like a tourniquet around her neck, to the thick velvet of her overdress, to the glittering rings on her long, spidery fingers.Similarly, her lips and eyes and nails are painted to match.While her makeup may have started the day fresh and crisp, it is woefully evident that the humidity of the conservatory has not agreed with her.The color on her lips is feathered and faded at the edges and sweat beads upon her brow, streaking the pale powder she has applied to her skin.Her name is Ilaria Valance and she is not particularly well liked in court, but I suppose her family name carries enough weight to secure her place at most tables of repute.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I’m <em>boooooooooored,”</em> the other woman, Eugenia, whines.She draws out the last word until it turns thin and nasal on her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s leaning forward on the table, her plate shoved away by the truly impressive spread of her tits.Her elbows rest on either side of her breasts, pressing the soft tissue together.It’s like adding edible gold to a dish of delicious iced cream: utterly unnecessary but still somehow appealing.Under the weight of her bosom, the gauzy layers of her pale pink dress look flimsy and insubstantial.It’s the sort of material that begs to be ripped to shreds.My fingers flex and wriggle instinctively and I hastily fist them in my lap.Eugenia leers at me, her colorless eyes heavily lidded with unspoken promise.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reach for my tea and hurriedly gulp it down.I find it lukewarm and bitter and not nearly enough of a distraction.Luckily, I am soon rescued by the bright <em>ting ting ting</em> of a fork struck against the side of a glass.I look up to see Allene poised at the far end of the table, her cup and fork held daintily in her hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now that we’ve all had a chance to settle in…” she begins cheerily.There are some muffled giggles and I feel more than see the shift down the line of the table as many of the ladies attempt to glance my way without appearing to do so.“I think introductions are in order.”She leaves space for a general murmur of ascent before continuing.“Lovely!Well, as you must already know, my name is Allene.I hail from Voswain and have only recently made my home in Soliss.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few of the women seated along the table titter appreciatively.It’s a bit redundant for Allene to introduce herself thusly — it’s not as if she hasn’t been the subject of all manner of gossip after the announcement of the royal betrothal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I know, I <em>know,” </em>Allene says.“But indulge me in this, please.I would very much like to become better acquainted with you all on more equal footing in the hopes to forge long and lasting friendships.”She looks over the table before her, meeting each woman’s eye in turn.When her gaze fixes upon me, one of her brows quirk.She lingers on me longer than I feel comfortable with.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, as I was saying,” Allene continues, “I love reading, both for learning and for pleasure.If you happen upon a good book — or perhaps if there is a classic of Nadaran literature you think I must read — I would love nothing more than for you to share it with me.”Several women around the table smile.I can smell their eagerness to ingratiate themselves with their future queen and I can practically see a number of them hastening to take mental notes.“And, hmm, let’s see…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene pauses and thinks for a moment.“A few years ago, back in Harrogate, I was out on the lawn enjoying a good book.It was a warm day and so I’d dressed appropriately in a light, gauzy summer dress, the sort that drapes across the bodice with clasps at the shoulders pinning the front and back together.Not far away, my younger brother Jace was playing field hockey with a number of his friends.There was a lad amongst them that, at the time, I somewhat fancied.Clemence, here, had just gone off in search of a servant to fetch us some iced tea, thus leaving me alone.I was reading and simultaneously sneaking glances at the players and entirely did not notice that the clasp here,” Allene raises a hand to pat the top of her shoulder just above the clavicle, “had somehow come undone and for some time my chemise had been on proud display to the wider world.I did not realize something was amiss until one of the men stopped dead in his tracks to stare at me mid-chase.He caused a whole pile up behind him, a chaos of bodies and limbs all jumbled together, and of course they all soon turned to look at me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene lets out a long, breathy laugh.“It was <em>mortifying.</em>I ran back to the castle with the two halves of my sleeve clutched together in one hand and my book in the other.I didn’t read outside again for at least another week and didn’t hear the end of Jace’s ribbing for <em>months.”</em>She looses another laugh, which is matched sympathetically by near every lady seated at the table.Sycophants. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, that’s me,” Allene says.“Lysithea, if you would go next, please.”She turns to beam at her friend.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Certainly,” Lysithea answers.She leans back nonchalantly in her chair, one leg crossed over the other.“My name is Lysithea Ballard,” she begins.The mood has somewhat sobered now that Lysithea is speaking.Even the birds sound quieter.“I live in Brenoche, but Zaza and I travel extensively for their work and so we do not see much of our home.”Her sentence ends on a sigh.It seems very put on to my ears, injected with a measure of sadness meant to garner pity.“I love big parties, babies, and long walks on the beach at sunset,” she continues.Allene smothers a laugh into her hand and I try and fail to not roll my eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea smirks and turns her gaze down the long line of the table.“When I was perhaps thirteen or so, I asked a girl I’d grown woefully enamored with to join me at a local café that was well known for being the favored spot of philosophers and writers and other such bright thinkers.Feeling myself to be very grown up, I ordered a black coffee, as I’d often seen Zaza do.”Here, Lysithea pauses and takes a sip from her teacup for emphasis.“It was <em>terribly</em> awkward.I was young and nervous and I struggled to think of anything at all other than how sweaty my hands were and how pretty she looked.When our drinks were brought out, I was desperate for anything to fill the silence.I grabbed my cup and took a deep drink of it.It was so hot it nearly scalded my mouth and, worse, it was unconscionably bitter.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea punctuates her words with another sip of tea.I think she does it deliberately for dramatic effect.“I spit it out immediately — and I spit it out all over her.”I wince sympathetically.As much as I dislike Lysithea, even I can’t take joy in this — and I see my sentiment echoed on the faces around me.That, I suspect, is likely the point of this anecdote.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She was fine, luckily — in the end it was only my own pride that was wounded,” she hastens to add.“It was <em>horribly</em> embarrassing,” she says with a protracted sigh.“Worse still, she never even realized I’d meant it as a date.”Someone at the table lets out a groan.Lysithea holds a hand to her heart in mock pain.“I <em>know,” </em>she bemoans, eyes closed.“It was a truly harrowing experience.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She waits several beats before cracking open one of her eyes.“Of course,” she continues, a sly grin sliding over her lips.“I’ve since learned from the error of my ways.”Her gaze sweeps over the ladies at the table and then lands on me.She quirks a brow.“I’m <em>much</em> more charming these days.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I release an involuntary snort.In the quiet, it’s much too loud.A few heads turn my way and I sink deeper into my chair, feeling my face go all hot and stupid.To my right, Eugenia gives me a sympathetic look.A moment later, I feel her hand move to rest gently upon my knee under the table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Next is Fidelity.“Oh, hell,” she mumbles nervously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few of the women around her giggle and she colors, realizing her words weren’t near as quiet as she meant them to be.When she blushes, it clashes horribly with the frizzy lengths of her wavy copper hair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, everyone, it’s lovely to be here and to make your acquaintance.My name is Fidelity and I too have moved recently from Voswain, as you must know, seeing as I am here in support of Princess Allene.”Fidelity glances about herself fitfully until her gaze rests upon Allene, who smiles at her encouragingly.Fidelity takes a deep breath and straightens her posture.“I’m very fond of gardening and of games of all sorts — cards, polo, horse racing.Anything that is likely to rouse the competitive spirit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity looks around nervously again and then shuts her eyes tightly and tenses.When she speaks, it all comes out in rapid succession, as if by getting the words out faster she can perhaps minimize their impact.“When I first joined Princess Allene’s court, I wasn’t used to — well — you know.I was in a rush to get dressed as I was running late to a luncheon.I had to do up my corset without assistance and it was — well — it was different from the sort I had grown up with and I was still very new to uhm.Anyway.I had my foot up on a bench for leverage as I was pulling the strings tight.I tried to move or take a step or — something — and the next thing I knew I had tripped over my own string, which had somehow ended up under my foot, and I was pitched forward, ankle over elbow, and full on kicked the bench over.And in my tripping, well, it all served to pull the laces even tighter and so I ended up in a heap on the floor, the bench toppled to one side, all the wind knocked out of me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this point, Fidelity’s face is a horridly bright red.In a very small voice, she continues.“Clemence found me like that, sprawled in a heap on the floor.We’d only just recently met and though she did get a good laugh in, she also helped set me to rights and never told a soul and that was how I knew I had to befriend her, because who could resist telling such a tale?”Fidelity squirms uncomfortably in her seat and shoots Clemence a look that is half mortified, half grateful.Clemence smiles back at her, looking utterly serene.“A-anyway, that’s me,” Fidelity chokes out, embarrassed.The women around the table seem split between laughter and commiseration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so the introductions continue for some time.None of them are nearly so interesting, of course, as the assembled women are all much too concerned with leaving a good impression.They list off hobbies such as embroidery or dressage or reading to children and they tell anecdotes about wearing the wrong color or mistakenly paying the wrong amount for some service. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Worse, still, are the stories that while on the surface meet the criteria of an embarrassing anecdote, really only serve to paint the teller in a positive light: “And I never would have been late if I hadn’t been so busy with my <em>charity</em> work,” or “I had no idea all these wonderful suitors were so interested in me and so, oopsie!I found myself ever so appalled having to publicly choose between the lot of them!” or “And that’s how this important person exposed this very kind and generous thing I’d been doing in secret in front of an amazed crowd.How embarrassing!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It makes me want to wretch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Luckily, Ilaria does not seem to possess whatever social aptitude has caused the rest of the ladies to tell such thoroughly nauseating stories.She speaks in monotone as she studiously ignores the sweat threatening to drip down her upper lip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was penning a letter to my father, sun rest his soul.”Here, she pauses to circle her hand before her in the symbol of the sun and the table releases a jumble of muttered sentiment.“And in a fit of emotion…”She says this utterly without inflection. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Across the table, Eugenia shifts in her seat and giggles faintly.Ilaria doesn’t seemed to have noticed or, if she has, she is choosing to ignore it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I managed to topple my bottle of ink and spill it all over myself.Of course, it quite ruined the letter.I bade a servant take care of the mess at my desk, but I had no time to see to myself, as I had an appointment shortly.I thought, well, what harm can it do?I am already dressed entirely in black.The ink will dry and it will not look much different.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the table’s head, Allene is leaning forward, her eyes wide with rapt attention.She looks thrilled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” Ilaria continues, “I took my coach to the meeting spot and began to conduct my business.But when I leaned over the table, the press of my stomach to its edge left an inky mark and when I shook hands with my solicitor, his hand, too, was stained.When I rose to my feet, I found my chair similarly colored and once I returned to my carriage it was to my dismay that I had not only dyed the seat, but had in fact left an inky black trail in my wake.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All around the table, ladies of repute are doing their best to only laugh politely.Some have their hands pressed over their mouths or curled tightly in their laps.I think, perhaps, if it had been another telling this tale, someone for whom these well-to-do ladies had a fondness, they would not find it nearly so funny.But being that it is Ilaria — who already has a reputation for eccentricity and who, well, always dresses like <em>that — </em>there is no face to be lost by laughing at her rather than with her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what —“ one of the ladies — Alyssum — asks, her eyes bugging out as she strains to contain her mirth, “What happened when you undressed later?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ilaria lets out a long suffering sigh, seemingly unaware of the chaos she has caused the rest of the table.“My skin had been dyed as well.It took <em>ages</em> to scrub it out.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This finally breaks a number of the women seated at the table.Cecily, a lady with bouncy brown curls, lets out a shriek of laughter before hastily clamping her hands over her mouth.Several others are bent double over the table, their shoulders shaking with repressed glee.It’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever seen at a courtly function.I cackle openly, my head thrown back, long hair cascading down my shoulders.For the first time since arriving in the conservatory, I feel relaxed.At my left, Eugenia is laughing along as well.When she does, it causes the pale expanse of her bosom to jiggle hypnotically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes several minutes for the assembled ladies to calm down.I spend most of that time staring at Eugenia’s tits.Eventually, Allene clears her throat.I look up, startled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” she says, hiding a chuckle behind her hand, “It is your turn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, suddenly sobered.Shit fuck shit.I didn’t come up with a name, let alone a backstory!Blood and ruin, I’ve really fucked this up.“Right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Although,” Allene continues.Her eyes glitter gleefully.“I’d be more interested to learn about all of this,” she says, and gestures to my general vicinity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance around myself, blinking in confusion, at first wondering if she means the very overt flirtation between myself and Eugenia, until I see them: upon the back of my chair, several of the conservatory birds have perched.As I notice them — and, more importantly, as my shoulders still — a new bird, a pale blue parakeet, alights upon one of my shoulders.Shit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re beautiful creatures, like brightly colored jewels, and fiercely intelligent (for birds, that is; they’re still horribly stupid compared to anything else).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say again, floundering.“Err.”I glance around the table and find every set of eyes curiously intent upon me.“It must be because I brought birdseed,” I lie.My gut twists.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Birdseed?” Clemence asks disbelievingly.“Why ever would you have that on your person?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, see,” I begin, inventing as I speak.“My father is a renowned bird keeper.I usually keep some on me regardless, but knowing I’d be in the conservatory and that there are a number of rare and beautiful birds here…”I do my best impression of a polite smile and quietly congratulate myself on being so amazingly clever.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, wow!” Fidelity exclaims, her eyes bright.“May I have some, then?To share with the birds as well?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shit.“Oh, sorry,” I reply, panicking.“It’s, uhm, all gone already.Most of it was eaten by birds I saw on my way in, and well, since then I’ve been covertly scattering some from my seat… These birds are just smelling, you know, the remnants of what was in my pockets before.Hoping I have more.”I am possibly the best or worst liar on the continent.I haven’t decided yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Fidelity replies, looking put out.She, at least, seems to believe me.“Next time, perhaps?” she asks hopefully.I nod and she beams.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can birds smell?” Allene cuts in, her brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I find they frequently smell rather a lot,” Lysithea replies, laughing to herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene waves her aside while rolling her eyes.“No, you know what I mean.Do birds even possess olfactory glands?Are they capable of smelling things?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course they are!” I exclaim, doing my best to sound as insulted as possible.As I do so, a tiny finch lands upon my head and plucks at a strand of my hair.In truth, I haven’t the faintest clue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I meant no offense,” Allene says hurriedly.It feels good to have her on the defensive for once.“I simply don’t know much about birds.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Clearly,” I reply tersely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene frowns at me for several moments and then shakes her head, seemingly deciding that whatever she was thinking isn’t worth pursuing.“Anyway,” she says, and clears her throat.“If you’d like to continue your introduction..?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” I say, settling back in my chair.“As you’ve doubtless heard, my name is Fae.I’m from…”I pause for a moment and think.I don’t want to risk saying I come from somewhere that another lady hails from and risk being unmasked when she has heard neither of myself nor my apparently famous fictional father.“My family moved here recently from Cindwick.”This garners several expressions of surprise from the native Nadarans and a keen look from Lysithea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love birds, <em>obviously,”</em> I continue and gesture to the finch on my head, which then takes the opportunity to hop on to my finger.“And good food, the hotter the better.As for an interesting story, well, it’s not exactly a specific anecdote, but due to my father’s work I have often found myself the unfortunate shitting ground for many a bird, often at extremely inopportune moments.”I let out a beleaguered sigh and turn my gaze heavenward.Several of the birds about my person shuffle in place, shifting their wings slightly to maintain balance.When my eyes return to the table, a few of the women are laughing quietly and several others look slightly scandalized.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” I say belatedly.“Was that too crass?You’ll have to forgive me, I’m still so unused to manners in the big city.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nice one, Feon.You clenched it, you beautiful bastard.I smile prettily at the rest of the table and, for added effect, bat my eyelashes with abandon.I set the finch down on to the table and watch with silent glee as it shuffles forward and begins to pick at the contents of Ilaria’s plate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I don’t mind,” Eugenia pipes up from beside me.As she looks me over, her lips curl into an impressively suggestive leer.“I quite like your manners the way they are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The silence that follows as Eugenia and I stare deep into each other’s eyes is decidedly awkward.Allene coughs delicately into her napkin and then says, “Well, lovely to meet you, Lady Fae.That was very… enlightening.”Her gaze slides away to focus upon Eugenia, who straightens with palpable reluctance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, everyone,” she says in a sing-song voice.“I’ve not had the pleasure of making many introductions, so this is incredibly fortuitous.My name is Eugenia and I am lucky to newly be this one’s,” she gestures towards Ilaria (who is currently staring at the bird before her with a mixture of fascination and horror) with lukewarm enthusiasm, “New sister after the recent union of our dear, beloved parents.”Under the table, Eugenia’s hand has migrated from my knee to my lower thigh.“Of course, that meant uprooting my entire life in Helion to move to the capital with my father, but love is truly worth any sacrifice.”She heaves a sigh and I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from the shifting of her incredible cleavage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As for my hobbies, well, I like all the usual things — baking, embroidery, romantic picnics in the spring…”She sounds half torn between whimsy and boredom.“But I must confess that I most enjoy messier activities.”Here, she smiles.The curve of her lips looks like depravity.“And by that, of course, I mean pottery.”She laughs at her own joke, a movement that begets an avalanche of movement from the neck down.I don’t think I’m the only one staring.Under the table, her hand slides further up my thigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love the ability to mold form and function and I love the feeling of wet clay under my hands.”As innocuous as her words seem, her tone is dripping with intent.Her eyes land upon mine again and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, all too aware of the heat in my gut and the steady ascent of her hand up my inner thigh.I feel like the only thing keeping me settled is the uncomfortable pressure of the parrot perched atop my shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Once, I was in the studio working on a large piece — a vase near half my height — and I needed to transport it to the drying room.I was alone in the studio and unable to ask for help so I decided it was time for me to buckle up and put my back into it — in a manner of speaking.If I couldn’t carry the weight of my own work, I didn’t deserve to see it finished.It took me ages to even maneuver it onto a board.By the time I managed that, I was short of breath and covered in sweat.”Eugenia shoots me a sly wink.I shift uncomfortably in my seat.I issue a muffled curse as the parrot’s talons dig into my shoulder before it launches itself away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Still, I persevered.I got the board in hand and tilted my body back so that the vase’s weight rested just enough against me that I could manage it without damaging my hours of work.It took more strength than I knew I possessed to get the vase to the threshold of the drying room, and just as I turned into it, another potter exited the room and ran directly into me — and my vase.”There’s something about the way she tells a story — perhaps not the content of the story itself — that is innately captivating.Or maybe it’s just that when she talks so animatedly, her tits move with her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My work was destroyed irreparably and we both ended up with clay all over ourselves.At that point, I was so thoroughly exhausted that I collapsed upon the floor then and there.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With those words, her fingers quest ever upwards, until they brush the unmistakable swell of my cock.My breathing stutters in my throat.My lips feel wet but my throat feels dry.Eugenia pauses, just for a moment, and her eyes flick towards me.She doesn’t withdraw her hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And, well, the other potter was so distraught at the destruction he had wrought that he just had to lay down there on the floor with me until I found myself fully recovered!” she exclaims with mock innocence.Her thumb brushes over the clothed tip of my erection.I exhale sharply.There is a moment of silence before her meaning sinks in and all up and down the table, the women take on expressions of dawning horror.“And when <em>another</em> potter entered the room—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, that’s enough, I think,” Allene says, looking somehow both amused and somewhat taken aback.“Thank you for that story, Lady Eugenia.It was… well, you certainly have a way with words.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia grins back at the far end of the table with an utter lack of ignominy.“Was that too much?” she asks, her voice pitched up with feigned naivety.“Sorry, it was all I could think of!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside Allene, Lysithea is beset with silent laughter.She clutches her arms about herself as her shoulders shake.“Oh, hell,” she wheezes, her voice cracking.“Fuck.”From several seats down, a mouse-faced lady named Soledad shoots Lysithea a scandalized look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t hear any of the remaining introductions.As much as I do my best to pay attention, my focus can’t extend much further than the gentle pressure of Eugenia’s hand upon me, kneading and insistent, as she works me casually through the layers of my clothing.She seems almost bored while doing it, the only hint of her interest in the occasional heated glance she shoots my way and the lingering of her hand upon me.She’s subtle about it, never moving too much, often pausing or withdrawing completely.It leaves me red-faced and thoroughly frustrated and by the end of the luncheon I’ve much a mind to stand and tumble her upon that very table, consequences be damned.The throbbing of my cock is incessant and angry and I feel very well prone to an outburst of violence or tears — whichever strikes me first.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s strange, you know,” Ilaria says towards the end of tea.It’s the first she’s spoken in some time and her pointed attention towards me is the only thing that manages to break through my stupor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmmwhat?” I hum, distracted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Earlier, there was a bit of a ruckus,” she continues.Ilaria has finally succumbed to her humanity and fashioned a makeshift fan out of a doily she stole from under one of the floral arrangements.“Apparently,” she says, stressing the word as she fans herself tiredly.“There was a young lady who attempted to enter the gathering without an invitation.”She smirks.“I overheard Lady Adra talking about it.She witnessed it, you see — she saw a young woman arguing quietly with that guard, the one with the dreadfully bright hair.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod along dumbly, torn between creeping horror and crawling heat.Even Eugenia has paused to listen, her hand stilled along the length of my erection.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Interesting,” I say as blandly as I can manage.“The depths some people will go to in order to gain entry to places where they are clearly not welcome.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first time this afternoon, Ilaria smiles.When her lips part, her teeth are stained black by her lip paint.“Precisely my thinking,” she replies.“I’m glad to see we are in accord.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile and do my best impression of a person who is not figuratively shitting themselves.Luckily, tea soon ends.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ladies,” Allene says as she stands.She turns one way and then the other so as to look each of us in the eye.“It has been my pleasure to host today’s tea and to better get to know so many of you.”She beams down at all of us.“I’d very much like to hold another tea here in two days’ time.I’d be very pleased if you all would join me once again.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a general murmur of ascent as young women stand and break off into chattering clusters.I remain seated, unwilling to risk the exposure of my arousal until I’m more confident in my ability to hide it.These loose trousers, while comfortable, do nothing to conceal my erection.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia remains seated beside me, one hand raised to pick lazily at a small cake, the other still very much making its presence known under the table.She swipes the icing from the cake with the tip of her finger, which she then buries in her mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ilaria stands and looks down at her step-sister.Her face is wrinkled with displeasure.“Disgusting,” she spits.Whether she’s talking about Eugenia’s eating habits or has finally cottoned on to her step-sister’s extracurricular activities under the table, I haven’t the faintest clue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia merely grins back and takes great pleasure in licking the icing from her skin.With a lazy smile, she slides her finger into her mouth down to the final knuckle and sucks on it.I choke indelicately, my eyes going wide as my cock jumps against her hand.Ilaria sputters and turns on her heel.She storms off, the high platforms of her clunky black boots proving very effective at the whole stomping thing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Soon, most of the ladies have cleared off and those remaining seem distracted enough by one another that I feel confident in my ability to leave without garnering unwanted attention.Eugenia gives me a meaningful look and stands from her seat.She raises her arms over her head and extends them languidly.Her breasts rise and shift as she stretches out her pectoral muscles.It takes me a good few moments to realize that my mouth is hanging open and I have to consciously remind myself to shut it.Eugenia opens one eye to give me a knowing smirk.I rise hurriedly after her and turn away from the others.Eugenia takes my arm in hers.The side of my arm presses sweetly into the swell of her breast.I swallow thickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fancy a walk?” she asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod hastily and together we make our way beyond the clearing of fruit trees and onto a path that leads away from the conservatory entrance, deeper into the chaotic sprawl of greenery.The scent of rich earth and vegetation mingles with the floral fragrance that hangs about her.We don’t talk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, we find a private little nook, a corner where the vegetation grows especially high and wild.Eugenia pulls me off the path, pushing aside branches and leaves.I stumble after her, my feet catching on roots in my haste.Large fronds cling to me like a whisper of grasping hands as I brush by them.The hum of insects is louder here, a low drone that tickles the back of my skull.It’s wetter here, too, the air so dense with moisture that I can’t tell if the wetness on my skin is humidity or sweat.Likely, it’s both.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia stops several paces in and crowds me into the side of a tall hedge.Leaves and branches stick into my back and neck and tangle into my long hair, but I don’t complain.I’m too busy watching as she sinks to the ground, her knees squishing into the soft earth, a look of clear intent upon her face.Her hands push up the long skirt of my jacket, shoving it out of the way so that she can tug at the large tie that cinches my trousers about my waist. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She grins widely, her eyes intent on the undeniable evidence of my arousal.Free and flowy as these pants are, they’ve offered almost no element of constraint, and my erection stands tall and proud, shamelessly tenting the soft material.She’s already spent ages teasing me, deftly edging me towards the brink of orgasm as those around us engaged in polite conversation, before leaving off and letting me subside into frustration.My cock has long since grown slick and shiny, wet enough that it soaked into the thin white material of my trousers, causing it to go somewhat transparent in places.The air is salty with the scent of my own sweat, of my near desperate state.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia laughs and pauses in the untying of my trousers to tilt her head and press her soft, wet lips to the clothed shape of me.She mouths at my cock through the material of my pants and then licks a long line down the entire length.When she draws away, the paint on her lips is smudged around her mouth and she has left a long, blotchy pink stain on the crotch of my white trousers.I groan, half in arousal, half in dismay.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oops,” she says gleefully.“Sorry.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I huff a sigh and let my head fall back into the shrubbery behind me.Eugenia smirks and pulls loose the tie around my waist.She peels away the flimsy material of my trousers and small pants, making an appreciative sound when my cock springs free.Her breath is hot and eager against my skin.She grips me in one hand while her other lowers, shifting her tits slightly to the side as she hastily gathers the length of her skirt and hikes it up to her hips so she can shove a hand into the soaking wet confines of her drawers and start rubbing one out.I can see the swollen ridges of her pert nipples through the flimsy material of her gown.I’m so entranced by the visual, the steady heaving of her massive tits as her arm shifts for a better angle, that I’m surprised when I feel her mouth close around me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wastes no time getting down to business.Though she may have teased me endlessly before, now that gratification is imminent, she doesn’t seem particularly interested in prolonging the wait.Eugenia’s mouth is hot and sticky-wet and big enough to take all of me.She works with shameless dedication, teeth and tongue and throat all moving in tandem to create a sweet, sweet suction.I huff a moan into the humid air — a moan she echoes, throat vibrating as her mouth nestles into the golden curls at the base of my cock.When she leans in to take me all the way, I feel the pressure of her breasts against my thighs.They’re so full and amazingly soft.This close, the smell of her perfume is strong and cloyingly sweet.It fills my nose, crowding out the smells of sweat and earth until all I can smell is lavender, pungent and overwhelming. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia rolls her tongue along the underside of my dick before she retreats, pulling off with an obscenely wet sound.The length of my cock is ringed by pink stains.She leans back on her heels, one hand falling into the soft ground to support her weight while the other works furiously into herself.I can see the outline of her hand moving rapidly under the soft cotton of her drawers, which are lacy and cropped short above her mid thigh.She’s so wet I can hear it, can partially see through the fabric of her small clothes.I groan and settle back on my heels and take myself in hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We finish quickly.Her orgasm rolls through her like summer thunder, leaving her gasping and wreathed in sweat.When I come a minute later, her gaze is lazy but intent, heavy with post-coital satisfaction.She heaves herself forward with a quiet sigh and leans in to suck the last of the cum from the head of my cock and from my fingers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She settles back to sitting, skirt still hiked up around her waist, and I watch with no small amount of interest as she begins to dig around inside the bodice of her dress.She shifts the soft tissue of her breasts, fingers searching for something I can’t see, and as she does so, the overwhelming scent of lavender hits me once again.It had receded when she backed away to find her own pleasure, but now it’s back with a vengeance.She must have several sprigs of it hidden away in her bosom.I frown and try to covertly cover my nose with one hand as I use my other to tuck myself back into my trousers.Eugenia seems to neither notice nor care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” I begin, busying my hands with the retying of my fabric belt.“I’ll just—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aha!” she exclaims loudly.She extricates her hand from her cleavage with a flourish.Between her thumb and pointer finger, she grasps a fat, white stick of rolled paper.“Found it.”She grins blithely up at me.Her other hand rummages into the pocket of her skirt and quickly returns with a small tube, perhaps three inches in length, that tapers out into a small bowl on one end.This, she brings to her lips and blows hard into it for a full minute, her face growing red with exertion, until there comes a distinctive click of something catching and then a vaguely wet sound and then a soft whoosh as a small flame flickers and spits into existence in the cradle of the bowl. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eugenia grins and quickly lights one end of the cigarette and then brings the other to her lips.She inhales deeply, her chest swelling with breath and smoke.She holds it in for several seconds before exhaling a long stream of white smoke on a contented sigh.Her eyes open and she smiles lazily up at me, her eyes steady upon mine. After a moment, she holds the joint out towards me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Want some?” she asks.“I don’t mind sharing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I kneel down wordlessly beside her and take it.It’s been a while since I last smoked.Caed and I have been so damn busy for weeks, and it’s not as if Voswain or the wilds of Ogren are great places to get high out of my mind.Besides, even if Caed doesn’t necessarily disapprove of the practice in general, he doesn’t particularly approve of <em>my</em> partaking in it — particularly not without warning him before hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin around the blunt on my lips, thinking about the last time I gave Caed an unexpected proxy high via our Bond.He’d had to skiv off near an entire day of work.We spent most of it together, our bodies strewn haphazardly on the floor of his bedroom, talking and talking until our throats grew hoarse and our eyes grew strained and bleary from forgetting to blink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed had looked so unencumbered, happy without qualifier or restraint.He’d giggled, openly gleeful, his heart beating in tandem with mine.He’d resented me the next day — or, at least, he had tried.He admonished me for distracting him, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take a deep drag.I find the heat — at my lips, at my fingertips — immensely satisfying.I am a being of smoke and spark.Breathing it into myself feels right, a pleasant burning that billows down my throat.I settle down on the ground beside Eugenia and exhale through my nostrils.I don’t know how long we sit together, passing the blunt back and forth in the dense humidity of the greenhouse.I watch as our smoke mingles in the air above, coiling sinuously as it disappears into the dense foliage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I think about the inventiveness of humans and how they strive to emulate us dragons, desperate for that fire and heat to enter their lungs, to consume them, until they come out the other side changed somehow, enlightened and wreathed in smoke.I think, too, about a bar tale I heard once about a dragon burning down a patch of cannabis plants and getting fantastically high, even at that size.A giggle bubbles out of my lips and when Eugenia asks me what’s so funny, I can’t explain it.I don’t remember laying down, but I am, and she is as well, her body stretched beside mine, our shoulders almost touching, my long hair splayed out in the dirt around me.I wish I had Caed here instead.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Gossip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>new chapter! this one is... long. but splitting it up again just didn't seem right, given the contents. this is also the last feon chapter for now (finally!)</p><p>i've removed the over all chapter count estimate since i keep having to split chapters into multiple parts, but i want y'all to know we are nearing the halfway point.</p><p>thank you for reading! please consider sharing this story with your friends and/or supporting it on patreon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I wake in my bed late the next morning my body feels strung out, half caught between tension and relaxation.I slept well and I feel the evidence of it in the deep satisfaction in my bones, the slowly rousing heaviness in my limbs.I also slept in an absolutely horrible position, my neck bent at an odd angle, one arm sandwiched under my body, my hips twisted strangely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sit up slowly and smack my lips.My mouth tastes like absolute hell.The sheets lay twisted around my torso and legs.I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothing — well, for the most part.I seem to have tried to rip elements of the outfit off myself while half asleep.As a result, my ill begotten outfit is looking even worse than it did before I slumbered.I let out a groan and stumble to my bathing chamber, shedding clothes along the way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time I’ve pissed and washed and settled into my new form, several things have grown apparent to me:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">First, I am horrifically hungry.I take several minutes to shift back to my usual human form, sighing sullenly as I undo all of yesterday’s hard work, knowing I’ll have to redo all of it for tomorrow.Once satisfied with my appearance, I shrug into some light clothing and stick my head out of my door to find a servant and order a late breakfast to my chambers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Second, I have utterly failed in my mission to spy on Allene.Not only did I not sit anywhere near her yesterday, but I didn’t even attempt to tail her afterwards.Clearly, I have made some mistakes that I had best not repeat.If I want to get near to her, I’ll need to arrive much earlier than I did previously.This means either shifting my form the night before, waking up earlier, or practicing so that I can enact the necessary changes more swiftly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Third, if I want my plan to work, I absolutely cannot allow myself to go anywhere near Eugenia again.She is far too distracting and though I regret allowing my attentions to be swayed, I can’t necessarily promise myself that I won’t allow it to happen again if presented with the temptation.I also know that I wish to be nowhere near Ilaria.I don’t know if her mentioning of Pavani’s attempted intrusion was done with purpose or if she was merely making casual conversation.I think I’m better off not knowing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fourth, having a dick makes me stupid.I have no doubts that Eugenia would have enticed me regardless of whatever human genitalia I chose to assemble for myself that day, but keeping my dick definitely made things harder (hah) for me and my presence of will, or lack thereof.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fifth, my clothing is absolutely ruined.I will have to figure out a different solution to that particular issue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With these points in mind, my strategy for the day becomes clear.I devour my breakfast immediately upon its arrival and instruct the servant that bore it to my room to return in an hour or so with an assortment of snack foods.I also tell them that I will be spending the day in my rooms and that therefor they should have my meals brought to me here.They turn to leave but at the last moment I have a thought and I tell them to bring me several pouches of birdseed as well.This garners a strange look before they quickly ease their expression into something more neutral.Then I get to work.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My first order of business is to scour the mass of stolen garments in search of anything serviceable for my needs.Nothing I possess works perfectly — it’s all either cropped too short at the sleeves or too low at the neckline unless I wish to pull from my personal wardrobe, which is not cut to fit my new dimensions.Feeling thoroughly dispirited, I paw sullenly through my own clothing.I think absently that I should perhaps attempt to steal something else…And then I feel it: a soft whisper across my fingers, a gentle caress.I dig through the drawer until I reach the bottom, where sits an unobtrusively plain tunic: the Shiftweave.After donning it the night of the ambush, I’d pulled it off the next day and shoved it to the bottom of my trunk and hadn’t thought of it since.My heartbeat quickens.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you say?” I breathe.I hold the Shiftweave out before me.“Would you like to help me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I strip hastily and then head towards the mirror.I pull the tunic on overhead.It takes its time settling down about my shoulders as if it needs to reacquaint itself with my shape.I wonder if it can sense that I’ve changed recently as well.I run a corner of the hem through my fingers, watching as a faint ripple of dark color follows the motion.Within its shifting I can feel a vague reproach.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” I say, air huffing through my lips.“I’ve been an ass.It’s not your fault — what you’re made from or how.”I frown down at my own reflection.“I’m sorry.I won’t do it again.”The tunic quiets against me.I flex my arms, reveling once again in the curious lightness of the material against my skin.With barely a thought, it shifts for me, its hue turning a deep red, the sleeves tightening around my arms, the hem racing to just below the knees.There, it stops abruptly.I frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that your limit?” I ask.The Shiftweave wavers against my skin and then I watch as the sleeves slowly recede until they stop just below the curve of my shoulders.The hem of the tunic gains another couple inches, but no more.“Hmmm…”I look myself over, my brow furrowed.After a long moment of consideration, I say, “I can work with that.Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There comes a knock at the door.Instantly, the Shiftweave alters its form to grow more masculine.My thoughts still swimming with possibilities, I open the door and allow the beleaguered looking servant to enter and arrange their tray of snack foods neatly upon my parlor table.After a quick break, I know what I must do next.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand and remove the Shiftweave, careful to treat it with a care I would not show any other piece of clothing.I hang it up in my wardrobe, shoving aside the other garments to allow the Shiftweave room to breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then I set about scouring my ill used bookshelves for a number of anatomy textbooks that Teacher left with me years ago.It takes some doing.It’s not that I have so many books to paw through — I don’t — but rather that they’ve all been shoved into the back most corner of my chambers and are so covered in dust that it takes several minutes for me to even be able to discern which book is which. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blow at them first, sending up plumes of dust that cause me to reel back with a violent sneeze.This continues for a solid minute before I give up and fetch one of the smaller towels from my bathing chamber.Newly equipped, I attack the grime with grim determination.Several minutes later, I surface from the musty closet coated with a fine layer of grime but triumphant, a selection of ungainly old textbooks tucked under my arm.I rearrange some things, grab a pillow from my bed, and sit before my mirror with the books set in front of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sift through old, faded pages until I find the relevant diagrams.I am, in many ways, intimately familiar with the muscular system of the human vagina.However, fucking one and forming one are two entirely different undertakings and it has been many years since I have last attempted to do the latter.As with many parts of human anatomy, it is an infuriatingly complex system that seems deceptively simple from the outside.The awkwardness of the required positioning is another point of frustration.I have to recline, half sitting upon the floor, trousers tossed off to the side, my legs spread, body positioned before the mirror so that I can see the work I need to do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">First, there is the rough shaping of it.I whistle an off key funeral dirge as I watch my balls whither into nothingness until the space beneath my dick becomes an expanse of smooth, uninterrupted skin.Steady on, brave soldiers.One day you will be needed again, but today is not that day.I run the tips of two fingers up and down the smooth line of skin until I feel I have the positioning right, and then I press in, creating a seam where previously there wasn’t one.I pull and push, working my fingers until my flesh molds to match the diagram in my textbook: first the outer labia, and then the inner. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers circle my cock.For a moment, instinct has me palming it, for all the good that will do (none).I press it into myself, feeling the shift as it shrinks and reshapes.I turn rapidly between the diagrams open before me and the reflection in the mirror until I think I’ve managed a convincing clit and hood, if rather large ones.I push and probe, exploring my new shape until I’m satisfied with the results.This is the easy part — the part I can see clearly and that I have intimate first hand experience with.The rest will not go so quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A knock sounds from the next room and I hastily stand and pull my pants back on before striding into my parlor and opening the door.A servant stands on the other side, her arms laden with a platter piled high with lunch foods.Rather than let her in, I take the tray from her arms and then close the door in her face.Peering first at my clock and then out the window, I confirm that it is indeed lunchtime — in fact, it’s late for lunchtime.Time is a slippery bitch when you’re trying to become — well, a slippery bitch.Suddenly ravenous, I wolf down a sandwich and follow it with half the pitcher of water provided me.Then I get back to work.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time my dinner arrives, I’ve managed what I’m pretty certain is a working vaginal system.Getting the proportions right — and, more importantly, connecting all the various nerves and muscles and other such things — took ages.But when I take a piss, it all seems to be working correctly, and when I finger myself in front of the mirror, everything gets appropriately wet and I’m not in any sort of pain or discomfort.All in all, it’s a huge success — except that it took the entire fucking day.After a quick meal and an exploratory introduction to my new genitals, I throw myself into bed and fall asleep almost immediately with only a faint pleasant throbbing between my legs for company.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise early the next day filled with a sense of purpose and determination that is uncommon for me. I take breakfast in my chambers and then set about reworking my appearance once again.It goes better now that I’ve had some practice and now that I know what form I aim to shift into, the way coming home always feels faster than leaving.The hair is still a bitch, though.There’s just so <em>much</em> of it.I stare at it resentfully in the mirror, but something between pride and vanity prevents me from lobbing it off at the shoulders as I am sorely tempted to do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Compared to my own transformation, working with the Shiftweave is almost fun.It responds to my wishes enthusiastically, changing its color and silhouette at my barest whim.I watch as stitches race down the length of fabric, feel it as the front splits and then buttons back together, hear the <em>pop pop pop</em> of beads bursting out of nothingness, until the tunic is decorated with an intricate pattern of beaded embroidery.It’s strangely satisfying and I find the end result highly impressive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From my stash of pilfered clothing, I manage to find a white skirt that falls long and full to brush the tops of my feet and, with it, a sort of cream colored bandeau that is easily hidden beneath my tunic.The Shiftweave sits over top these, resplendent in bright orange, with a high collar and short sleeves and fine golden embroidery.I appraise myself thoughtfully, turning this way and that, my full skirt twisting and twirling with my movement. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling very pleased with myself, I exit my rooms, grabbing a pouch of birdseed on the way out, and make for the grand conservatory with time to spare.Daffodil recognizes me on sight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How are you today, Lady Fae?” they ask courteously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very well, thank you,” I reply.Daffodil smiles and opens the door for me and bows me in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find the long table empty.Servants bustle around its perimeter, finalizing the preparations.They give me professionally deferential but disinterested looks or ignore me completely as they go about their tasks.Glancing about, I seem to be the first one here, and I conclude that in my desperation not to end up on the wrong end of the table, I have arrived far too early.Still, it’s better than being late.I pull out a chair from near the head of the table — not the head chair or the chairs on either of its sides, as I know those will be taken — and turn it away to face out towards the fruit trees before taking a seat.If I’m going to be early, I may as well stake my claim without looking <em>too </em>overly eager. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fist my hands in my pockets and one of them brushes up against something — the pouch of birdseed.Well, I ought to lend credence to my claims, hadn’t I.Pouch in hand, I lazily scatter a handful of birdseed on the ground before me.It doesn’t take long for the birds to come flocking to the unexpected meal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Several minutes later I have succeeded in drawing a small crowd of various sizes and colors and breeds who all jostle in turn for either feed or for my attention.I watch, amused, as one of the conservatory chickens steps onto the scene, head bobbing, and immediately crowds a group of tiny finches away from a smattering of seeds.I toss out another handful of feed and then loose a whistle, a high trill that mimics birdsong.A moment later, I am echoed by an uncoordinated clamor of chortles and calls and squawks, much like an orchestra tuning to concert pitch before a performance, only the instruments are these tiny befeathered demons. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the birds quiet, I hear something in their absence: a pair of familiar voices coming from somewhere towards the back of the conservatory.I rise from my seat and scatter another handful of seeds in front of the chair to keep the birds occupied and make my way towards the voices as quietly as possible.On the left side of the conservatory, there is a narrow spiral staircase that winds up from the ground to a balcony that runs the inner perimeter of the greenhouse.That is where I find them.I duck back into the cover of the overgrown trees, not needing to see the speakers to recognize them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you moping around these last few days,” Allene says, accusation on her tongue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not — listen, I’m fine.”This is Lysithea.She sounds distinctly put upon in a way I’ve not heard from her before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lysithea, know I hold you <em>very</em> dear to me, but also — <em>how am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what is the matter,”</em> Allene hisses frustratedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea lets out a guttural groan.“Oh my God it is <em>not </em>a big deal, I promise.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then <em>tell me,”</em> Allene retorts.Lysithea must hear the same determination that I do, for she soon relents.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my God, <em>fine</em> — I just.I’m just <em>embarrassed, </em>alright?”She makes a muffled sound of discomfort.“I tried to — listen, I spoke to one of your <em>fiancé’s</em> new guards at the ball, alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Which one?” Allene asks.Her voice is a strange mix of attempted sympathy that is undercut by the purr of satisfaction at having gotten her way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, the hot one,” Lysithea replies shortly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Connor?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”Lysithea heaves a sigh and then barrels on.“I didn’t even mean it that seriously but, you know, she’s <em>so hot.”</em>Allene makes a sort of sympathetic sound deep in her throat and waits for Lysithea to continue.“And she just — she looked at me with, like, pity, and said, ‘As much as I’d like to be your bad decision tonight, I’m much too old for you.’”Lysithea lets out a long groan.“After that, the other one — the annoying man child — got this sort of condescending look on his face as he ushered me away, saying they were on the clock and much too busy to be fraternizing.Usually I wouldn’t really care, I’d chew him out or something, except…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Except?” Allene echoes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Except she’s just so damn <em>hot,”</em> Lysithea groans.Her voice is muffled and I think she is covering her face with her hands.“I think it fucked with my brain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Allene laughs.“Well, how old <em>is</em> she, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know.Thirty-eight?Thirty-nine?” Lysithea replies.Allene makes a noncommittal humming noise in response that does nothing to obfuscate her opinion.“Ugh, shut up,” Lysithea replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, she is right, I think,” Allene says.“Thirteen years is nothing to sneeze at.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, it’s not a big deal,” Lysithea counters defensively.“Just let me lick my wounds in peace, thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene breathes out a laugh.“Alright.Should we talk about something else, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please, God, <em>anything.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As delicious as it is to hear about any of Lysithea’s failures, romantic or otherwise, they are decidedly not talking about anything that is of actual use to me.So when I hear their voices begin to shift closer, I backtrack as quietly as I can, hoping the rustling of the leaves is covered by birdsong, and resume my seat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Piggy little things, aren’t you,” I say fondly as I see that the birds have already consumed what I left for them and are now chirping adamantly for more.Mindful that I do not actually want the birdseed to run out before tea, I gather a small handful of it and keep it cupped in my palm.The birds do not need much coaxing before they beset me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” comes a voice to one side.I turn to find Allene and Lysithea entering the clearing arm in arm.It is Allene who has spoken.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise from my seat, sending a flurry of birds flying into the air as they launch off my person.I begin to bow.Halfway down, I correct it into a clumsy curtsey.“A—Your Grace,” I reply, as deferentially as I am able.I only just manage to remember to use her proper address.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re early, I see,” she says, almost sounding pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t… I did not wish a repeat of last time, Your Grace,” I reply.I try to coach my voice to be soft and demure.I don’t think I’m very good at it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene merely nods in response and assumes her seat at the head of the table.Clemence and Fidelity have arrived as well and are already seated on the opposite side of the table from me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea remains standing.She regards me, her head cocked slightly to one side.Then she steps forward and raises a hand to brush away something from my hair.I go completely rigid. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There was a leaf,” she says, her voice low.She smirks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Likely from a bird, Ly—Lady Ballard,” I reply, trying not to display my inner panic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” she says.I don’t like the glimmer in her eye.“Call me Lysithea.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, she turns and assumes her seat at Allene’s side.My hearts stammers in my chest.I think she must know it’s me — I’m not certain how, but I see it in her eyes.Worse, still, the empty place from whence I stole my chair is the space beside hers.I have doomed myself to spend the next several hours by her side.Feeling a low panic rise in my chest, I pick up my chair slowly and drag it until it rests beside hers.Lysithea’s eyes flick towards me, amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be exerting herself thusly,” she says, though she makes no attempt to assist me.Having not yet taken my seat, I frown down at her.She sighs and gestures around the table.A steady trickle of young ladies has begun to arrive.As they assume their seats, servants bustle around them, pushing in their chairs, readjusting table settings, and pouring tea.“That’s what the servants are for.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sit down heavily and begin to awkwardly scoot myself in to the table, too stubborn to take Lysithea’s advice.I smile at her blandly, all the while trying to be mindful not to catch the hem of my long skirt beneath my chair.Lysithea watches the entire time, her jaw propped along the length of her hand, elbow resting on the table.She looks at me as if I am a rare, private sort of entertainment she does not often have the privilege of witnessing and one she doesn’t much wish to share.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I understand things are different in the country,” she purrs.She stares languidly down at me, something simmering in her silvery eyes.She shifts and moves her free hand to rest upon mine.“I’d be happy to assist you in your acclimation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare back at her, slack jawed, and try to think up a reply.If she has indeed discovered the truth of my identity, then she is playing a long and decidedly wicked game.I wouldn’t put it past her.Luckily, I’m saved from having to summon a response by the completely oblivious Fidelity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” she calls from across the table.I turn towards her gratefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” I answer, my voice pitched up near a full octave.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve just learned from Allene about your aviary exploits this afternoon,” she begins.She sounds the words out slowly, as if she is choosing them with great care, and she is overly careful to annunciate them correctly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you mean my feeding the birds, yes, I did do some of that earlier,” I reply, amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She fixes her swampy green eyes upon mine and then says, all in a rush, “So that birdseed, then — can I, can I have some?Please?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, and laugh.“Sure.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity beams at me.I pour a measure of birdseed into my palm and lean over the table to pass it to her.As the feed exchanges hands, several seeds tumble onto the table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The two of you are going to get birds <em>everywhere,”</em> Clemence remarks, sounding half disapproving, half amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug.“If you don’t like it, then tell your princess to take us somewhere with less birds,” I answer without thinking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence’s brows raise and she looks me over appraisingly.I sink back into my seat, red-faced and regretful.Beside Clemence, Fidelity is trying with only mild success to coax a number of birds towards her.They’re perfectly willing to eat the seeds she tosses further afield, but she has yet to successfully tempt one to alight upon her person.Still, she seems highly entertained.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is in this manner that the day’s tea begins.The conservatory is soon filled with the sounds of polite conversation and feminine laughter.I notice that Ilaria and Eugenia have maintained their seats across from one another at the far end of the table and that the unfortunate lady sandwiched between them looks all together overwhelmed as the step-sisters snipe at one another conversationally.At one point, Eugenia’s eye catches mine and she smiles broadly.From then on, I keep my gaze determinedly away from that end of the table.I don’t want to know what sort of face Ilaria might make should I meet her gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stumble my way through ladies’ etiquette and polite conversation, doing my best to always ask questions of others rather than answer ones about myself.I realize an hour or so in that while I perhaps should have better prepared my character, most of the women present are all too happy to speak of themselves, eager to show off their wit or knowledge or charm.In facilitating opportunities for them to expound upon themselves and their many good qualities, I find it is all together not terribly difficult to gain their favor.So I nod and smile and listen and try very hard not to talk about myself and no one seems particularly bothered by that.Even Lysithea’s interest in me appears to have waned once I began to play this more subservient role, though her eyes do still wander towards me now and again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only Clemence seems to pay me any special mind.“Lady Fae,” she begins offhandedly, her fingers neatly curled around the handle of her teacup.“Remind me from where you hail again?I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Cindwick,” I answer, eyeing her as I sip my own tea.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not many noble families reside there any longer,” she says casually.“Or at least, that is what Lady Lysithea has told me.”Clemence nods politely towards the Larish pain in the ass.Lysithea shoots her a grin and then returns to her conversation with Allene.I imagine Lysithea has had a good many things to say about Cindwick.It’s no secret that Laruze resents the reclaiming of the land by Nadaran rule.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That is correct,” I reply, trying to see where this is going.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is strange, then, that I asked around and did not manage to find a single individual who had heard of a Lady Fae from Cindwick,” she continues casually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, my heart thudding loudly in my chest.“Well.I find not many city folk pay all that much attention to the goings on in the country.”I force the muscles of my face into a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence <em>hmms</em> noncommittally and stirs a cube of sugar into her tea.For a moment, I think the topic of my very real and convincing backstory has been dropped, until she continues. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This father of yours — the bird keeper.What name does he go by?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say again, feeling the panic rise in my chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I open my mouth to answer, uncertain of what I’ll say, but am saved by a great ruckus as a large dark shape plummets and hits the table before Allene with a loud thud.Sieglinde starts forward on instinct, but relaxes almost immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There, jostling the floral centerpiece, its large colorful wings flapping wildly, sits a massive macaw.It hops around chaotically, scrabbling over plates, spilling tea, and overturning the sugar bowl.Several of the surrounding women squeal and shriek and those seated at the table, as a collective, draw back hastily.The macaw gives a deafening squawk as it beats its wings wildly.A glass topples over on to the tablecloth, staining the pale pink fabric a deep red, and then rolls off the table and shatters on the ground below.A woman shrieks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no, please, I’m so sorry!” Fidelity sobs.I can’t tell if she’s pleading with the bird or with the group as a whole.“Oh damn, oh hell, oh—” she mutters, trying to coax the giant bird back off the table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a beautiful creature, brightly colored and majestic, and large even for its breed — and it is absolutely, chaotically destructive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you would just — oh — Sir Bird, <em>please,”</em> Fidelity pleads, apparently having decided that the bird demands some modicum of respect.She’s probably right.I watch, amused, as it sends several more dishes clattering to the ground.Most of the ladies on our end of the table have risen and begun to back away.Fidelity’s eyes lock on mine, wide eyed and desperate. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Help me!Please!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Begrudgingly, I approach the table once more, birdseed cupped coaxingly in the palm of my hand.“Come on,” I urge between gritted teeth.“Come here, you great big lug.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bird’s head swivels so it can appraise me with one dark, intelligent eye.It hops towards me, sending silverware flying.It bows forward to pick at a petit four.I lean in slowly and offer my arm, keeping my thumb and fingers tucked away so the macaw isn’t tempted into thinking they’re fat, juicy worms.In my other hand I hold a particularly large seed as a sort of peace offering.Around me, the ladies have subsided into silent watchfulness as they wait together on a held breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The macaw eyes me for several long moments and then hops forward, simple as that, until it’s close enough to step onto this newly offered perch.Its large talons curl into my arm and it steadies itself.I present it with the treat, which it accepts delicately, before gnawing fondly at my thumb. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good job, dipshit,” I croon affectionately.I straighten slowly and carefully and then walk away from the table and towards the trees, all the while murmuring encouragements and offering treats.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I return sans bird, servants are bustling around the table trying to set things to rights and Fidelity is red faced and apologizing profusely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m <em>so</em> sorry,” she wails, her voice coming out all high pitched and squeaky.“It was just — it was so pretty and I was just trying to coax it on to my arm.”She looks a mess.Her coppery hair, already done no favors by the humidity, is a disaster of frizz and tangles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fidelity,” Allene says softly.“It’s alright.”Allene soberly surveys the anarchic sprawl before her.“Still, I think we’d best table today’s tea for now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorryyyyyyyyyy,” Fidelity moans tearfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hush,” Clemence says and pulls Fidelity to her side.Slightly mollified, Fidelity huffs out a breath and then buries her head into Clemence’s neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” Allene continues.“This was lovely while it lasted.”She looks out over the assorted groupings of young women and says, “I was planning to gather again later next week, but perhaps — perhaps we could meet in three days’ time?”There is a general murmur of ascent.“Very good.”This time when she turns, her gazes fixes upon me.“And perhaps no birdseed this time.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod dumbly.It’s not <em>my</em> fault Fidelity didn’t know how to handle her birdseed, but it doesn’t largely matter regardless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I stride forward to exit the conservatory, Fidelity stops me as I pass her by.“Lady Fae,” she says.Her voice is thick with congestion.I stop before her politely.“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re welcome,” I say, and smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not just for that bit at the end with the massive — with the bird,” she continues awkwardly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The macaw,” I correct.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.Not just with the macaw, but also for the birdseed and —”She pulls away from Clemence and takes my arm conspiratorially.“Listen, I know you are not particularly beloved in our circle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m shocked,” I reply, trying to sound like I mean it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity laughs.“Regardless, I — well — I know what it’s like.To… to enter into a world such as this.To come from — well, not nothing per se, but, you know…” she flounders.Silence stretches awkwardly between us for several long moments.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, I decide to rescue her.“Yes,” I reply.“I think I know what you mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She gives me a wide, bright smile that I definitely do not deserve.“Well, know that regardless you have a friend in me.”She hesitates for a moment, indecision coloring her already ruddy face an even deeper shade of red.“If — if that’s alright with you, of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile back at her.“I’d like that, yes.”Fidelity beams at me, open and guileless.I almost feel bad for deceiving her.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next tea party goes much more smoothly.On this day, they’ve done away with the more formal long table and have instead elected to arrange within the clearing four circular tables that sit seven each.Fidelity saves me a seat beside her at Allene’s table and when she sees me approach, she stands and greets me enthusiastically with a kiss upon each cheek.Bemused, I settle in beside her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a smaller group and an implicit invite, I find it much easier to integrate into the day’s conversation than I did previously.I take deep pleasure in knowing that I have somehow conned my way into a coveted seat at Allene’s table.Whenever I catch another of the ladies looking upon me with disbelief and envy, I simply smile in return, knowing it only serves to deepen their ire.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At one point I catch Allene deep in conversation with one of the ladies of the Nadaran court — Cicely or Circe or Celery or something similar.I catch a few words, something about finding a tailor willing to blend Voswainian and Nadaran fashions.I have noticed that since her arrival, Allene has attempted to somewhat integrate herself into the local style.Foremost, she has largely foregone the masses of billowing petticoats of her homeland for a sleeker silhouette.I think, partially, it must be the weather.Though spring is still in full swing, summer will arrive before much longer and she will either have to assimilate or suffer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s strangely pleasant to be included in women’s conversation.Though much of it is inane, it is not any more or less so than discussions between young men in similar gatherings.We talk about social events, about clothing, and games, and literature — but, more than anything, we talk about people.I learn quite a lot of gossip to which I was not previously privy.As it turns out, Cicely (for that is indeed her name) has an ear for such things and, more importantly, she has no qualms about sharing it.Eventually, and I suppose inevitably, the conversation turns to romance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re so <em>lucky,</em> Your Grace,” Cicely breathes enviously.“Prince Caederyn is just about perfect.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.“He is, isn’t he.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will confess,” Cicely continues.“I was rather upset when news of the betrothal first broke.It was like grieving a childhood fantasy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs again, her face splitting into a bright grin.“Yes, I rather sensed that tension upon my arrival.Not that you haven’t all made me feel perfectly welcome, but I think it was inevitable, what with Caederyn being… well, himself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cicely nods, looking off into the distance, her eyes gone somewhat misty.“I fancied him for years, you know,” she says dreamily.“Right up until my Eduardo began to pursue me in earnest.”She giggles and dangles her left hand forward.Upon her fourth finger rests a slim gold band set with a small pearl that is bracketed by three tiny diamonds.“I tortured him for ages.Every time I sighed wistfully about how gallant and handsome our dear prince was, Eduardo would go red in the face like a great big tomato.He tried so hard to play indifferent, I just couldn’t help myself!Of course, that’s part of what made me fall for him in the first place.”She laughs again, her face glowing with the tactless glee of someone who is both very stupid and very in love.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eyeing the princess conspiratorially, Cicely leans in and asks, “What of you, Your Grace?Surely you must have had your eye on <em>someone</em> back home before all of this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene smiles and shrugs.“Oh, plenty,” she replies casually.“But none with any real amount of fervor.”At Cicely’s dismay, Allene laughs.“I’m sorry to disappoint — but I think you understand, don’t you?Caederyn is… special.I knew there was something about him even when I was younger.And when we grew older, well…”Here, she looks down at herself, her smile taking on an unbearable sort of intimacy.I grit my teeth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We never spoke much in person.At first, I thought he disliked me for some reason and I was determined to find the cause of it, seeing as how I quite liked him.Eventually we began to exchange letters and I learned — I learned a lot of things, but most importantly that he didn’t dislike me and that he was much better at expressing himself on a page than in speech.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At Allene’s right hand, Lysithea shifts stiffly.She stabs her fork violently into the slice of cake on the plate before her.I suddenly feel a strong kinship with that dreadful bitch — a feeling which I thoroughly resent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s, like, disgustingly sweet,” says Alyssum, the other Nadaran lady at the table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs again.“Yes, I know.But if I’m going to be over here being boring, well, the rest of you lot had better give me some interesting news.Clemence — any luck recently with you-know-who?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Clemence answers, looking vaguely disgusted by the entire conversation.“I think she finds the very notion of <em>humoring</em> me unprofessional.”She sighs, a frown pulling at the corners of her dark lips, and sips her tea moodily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, please, <em>who?”</em> Cicely breathes eagerly.The way she has her eyes locked upon Clemence, her entire body nearly vibrating — it’s like looking at a small dog, one of those horrible lap sitting breeds with long hair and no discernible use, who has just had a morsel of juicy chicken dangled before its face.Clemence stares Cicely down until the woman slowly begins to wilt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Despite this, it is Clemence who eventually relents.“Captain Elske,” she answers on a sigh.“Of the prince’s guard.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Cicely lets out a high pitched shriek that is so loud it has the women at the other tables turning to look in her direction.“Oh, wow, oh, <em>wow!” </em>she exclaims excitedly.“Yes, yes I think I understand the appeal — she’s very, well, you <em>know </em>how she is,” Cicely says animatedly, her short brown curls bouncing with her enthusiasm.“Yes, I think I understand <em>exactly.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence, for her part, seems to be regretting her decision to share.Still bobbing up and down like an overzealous puppy, Cicely begins to speak rapidly, hardly leaving room for breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps your problem is simply you have yet to approach her in a nonprofessional setting.Yes, that is a difficult proposition, seeing as she must be on duty most times, but I think — I think you could manage it.If you could perhaps get her schedule — well, you are friendly to the prince’s betrothed, I think that would be quite doable — and, hmm, I wonder if there is a public house she frequents?Or somewhere you could invite her…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” Clemence says, looking the very picture of regret.“Please stop.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cicely just beams.“Try it.You <em>must.</em>If I’m wrong, well, you can come to me and I’ll set you up with someone else — though I can’t promise anyone quite so, well…”She leaves off on a sigh that I think we all echo internally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The conversation devolves from there.When questioned, Fidelity becomes overly flustered and pointedly refuses to answer so much as the most innocuous of queries, her face gone redder than her hair.Allene and Clemence take turns ribbing her about the “flavor of the week” vis a vis her current infatuation, but she keeps her lips locked tighter than a leech latched on to an unsuspecting opossum. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Conversely, Lysithea talks at length about the many women she has successfully wooed in perhaps more detail than is necessary.She grins all the while and now and again I catch her looking my way.I groan and slouch in my chair, determinedly avoiding her gaze.I don’t know how, but somehow when the conversation circles to myself — or rather, to Lady Fae — I am caught completely unawares.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what of you, Lady Fae?” Cicely asks nosily.“Any romance of which to speak?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh awkwardly and take a big gulp of tea.“Some, yes, though none you’d know.I’m still <em>very</em> new here,” I say, stressing the words delicately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And there has been no one since your arrival?” she pries, looking disappointed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, heavens, no.I mean, of course, there is no shortage of attractive people at court — but no romance in my life to speak of, no,” I say, doing my best to inject a measure of sadness into my smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity gives me a sympathetic look while Cicely hums disappointedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, perhaps we could aid you with that,” Alyssum says, taking up the standard.I think she speaks more out of her own amusement than from any real desire to help me.“Is there anyone in particular you find yourself favoring?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glare at her for several moments before I remember that I’m not supposed to do that in this setting or as this version of myself.Luckily, no one seems to find it particularly odd. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply, the words coming out angrier than I’d meant to let them.“That guard with the yellow hair — Hal-something, I think — they’re rather cute, I suppose.I don’t know many people yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You seemed <em>very</em> fond of Lady Eugenia last week,” Lysithea remarks offhandedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scowl at her, my face going hot.“Yes, well,” I begin, reaching for anything meaningful to say and coming up lacking.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, who could blame her for that?” Allene says, laughing.Despite myself, I feel grateful for the rescue.“Just <em>look</em> at her.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene gestures to the furthest table from ours.I risk a quick glance behind me and see Eugenia sitting there, leaned in close to another lady on some pretense, her phenomenal tits pressed enticingly against the other’s arm.Eugenia’s current mark looks just as overwhelmed as I felt when I was the target of her attentions.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea lets out a long, wistful sigh.“That’s not a woman,” she breathes.“That’s a force of nature.”We all nod in silent commiseration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I surprise myself as being the first to break the quiet.“And yourself, Lady Alyssum?” I ask, directing a saccharine smile her way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rather than taking offense, she merely laughs.“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” she says smugly, and taps the side of her nose with her forefinger.At the collective groan from the table and at the imminent threat of very polite mutiny, Alyssum relents.“Well, I won’t speak of the past, but I <em>have</em> had my eye on someone of late.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who?” I demand vexedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She grins coyly around the table.I can tell she’s reveling in the attention — and in making us all lean in to wait patiently upon her words. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lord Feon.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blanche.The rest of the ladies seated at the table release their held breaths and recede back from the table, seeming disappointed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, don’t give me that look, Cissy,” Alyssum continues.“I <em>know</em> he doesn’t care, just let me keep my old crush in peace.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cicely, unabated, returns, “That’s a cop out, <em>Alyssum.”</em>She enunciates her friend’s name carefully to show how thoroughly unhappy she is with her.“That’s the same as saying you fancy Prince Caederyn or that you think the chancellor is boring.It doesn’t <em>mean</em> anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alyssum rolls her eyes.“Yes, well, you got away with it, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cicely waves her be-ringed hand dismissively.“I’m married, you hag, it’s different.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The two of them dissolve into quiet bickering.To my dismay, Clemence seems to have kept a keen eye upon me.“You didn’t look well when Lady Alyssum mentioned Lord Feon,” she remarks, her dark eyes intent upon me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, my voice coming out meeker than I’ve ever heard it.“Hmmm.Funny that you think that.”I reach hastily for my teacup and hide as much of my face behind it as I can manage.It’s very small and therefor makes for shitty camouflage, but it’s all I have.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, <em>Lady Fae,”</em> Cicely says, leaning around Alyssum to stare at me pityingly.“I know he’s very pretty but it’s not worth it, dear, trust me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” I say, completely toneless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alyssum turns to me and waves a hand dismissively.“Honey, he’s a lost cause.Even <em>I</em> know that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“W-what are you all talking about!” I demand, feeling my ears grow hot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well he’s… <em>you know.”</em>Cicely sighs and glances towards Allene, who smiles back wanly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I don’t know,” I reply stubbornly.I frown back at Cicely for good measure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s in love with the prince,” Lysithea answers boredly.Unlike the rest of the group, she sits reclined in her chair.She picks disinterestedly at her food, holding her fork at length, her fingers grasping the far end of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, feeling too many things — all of them things that Lady Fae should not be feeling.“How do you know that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alyssum leans forward and places a hand on mine.I greatly resent the pity in her gray-blue eyes.“Oh, Honey,” she says.She cups my face with one of her hands until I am forced to meet her gaze.I gnash my teeth in furious silence.“Well, it’s obvious, for one.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And for the other?” I ask darkly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alyssum bites her lip and glances back at the rest of the group.Silence hangs heavy and awkward amongst us like an eighth guest at our table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, Cicely speaks up.“Well,” she begins carefully.“It’s tradition.”When I don’t seem to have gotten her meaning, she continues.“I think they’re all a little in love with their Bonded,” she says.“The dragons, I mean.”She leans around Alyssum to pat my hand consolingly.“It’s <em>very</em> romantic,” she assures me, her voice pitched up, all soppy and wistful.“Besides, he’ll grow out of it eventually.You just might not be alive by the time he does.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown back at her.She looks so damn — so fucking — she’s looking at me like I’m the last picking at field day, like I’m somehow pitiful.I can’t hold her gaze.My eyes fall to my lap where my hands sit clenched into fists.I stand suddenly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think — I think I’m not feeling well,” I say, my voice gone horribly wobbly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s strange, seeing their sympathetic faces and knowing that I’m unable to conceal my emotions but that by the nature of my initial deceit, they have no notion of my true feelings.As I pass her by in my escape, Allene reaches out, I think to attempt to console me or something, but she misjudges my speed and so instead of taking my hand or touching it or whatever she intended, her fingers just sort of awkwardly brush the fabric at my hip instead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hasten away, back down the path and towards the exit.Halfway down its length, just before the clearing with the pond, Fidelity catches up with me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” she says, her breath slightly labored. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hands find mine and I stop, feeling within me a deep and dark mutiny.I hate that I’ve grown fond enough of her that I don’t wish to ignore her kindness.She’s a stupid, sweet, flimsy thing and I’m going to hurt her eventually — but I don’t have to hurt her now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So I stop, but I don’t turn around.Before me, the statue of Solene and Koel sits there, beautiful and taunting.While Solene looks off into the distance, towards her people or a battle or something else, Koel remains loyally at her feet, his adoring gaze locked upon her and nothing else.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Join me — join us.Tomorrow.In the princess’s chambers.We’ll have a quieter gathering — something… something private.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.When Fidelity releases a quiet, relieved sigh I feel fit to bursting with a thousand different emotions.She releases me and my hand slips from hers easily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once back in my chambers, I reflect ruefully that despite the unpleasant end to the afternoon, this sour turn of events has lead to an unexpected boon: a relatively private meeting with the princess. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As of yet, she has not let slip any secret schemings or other such evidence in my presence.In fact, I think it was rather silly of me to expect her to act so openly conniving, whether or not Caed was beside her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, I have only found Allene to behave as her usual self — her willful, arrogant, self important, fiendishly clever, deeply loyal and surprisingly patient self.I find that, when her relationship with Caed is not a consideration, I don’t particularly dislike those qualities.That thought, once it crosses my mind, is one I summarily bury deep into my psyche where I will not have to examine it further.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I go to bed without resuming my usual human form.It’s the first time I’ve done so.It’s nice in a way — and also incredibly strange.Rousing to the feeling of pleasantly cool fabric against my bare skin is made somehow novel by my new shape. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The hair, though — the hair is annoying.Any time I moved during the night, my newly elongated hair would find a way to get underfoot — or, rather, under any of my various body parts.Some time around midnight I got too frustrated to keep dealing with it and so I scrounged around in my wardrobe until I found a scarf appropriately sized for bundling up my masses of hair.This came with its own annoyances, but it was decidedly less obnoxious than constantly having my hair yanked painfully by my own body weight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rouse and go about my morning ablutions, voiding my bowels and washing up and cleaning my teeth while my thoughts linger elsewhere.It’s something I soon pay for as I absently open the day’s mail.Mind otherwise occupied, I sever the top seam of an envelope with the sharp edge of my letter opener.The knife carries the line through, slicing into my thumb and drawing blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow!Fuck!” I curse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I throw down the letter and shake my offended hand by the wrist before hastily bringing it up to my mouth so I can suck away the blood.I feel a delicate shudder against my skin, a sort of gentle vibration.I look down at my body and see that several droplets of blood have splattered upon the Shiftweave just over my breast.I curse again and hasten to the bathing chamber to wash out the stain, but as I begin to undress, the red spatter shivers in place before slowly fading away, as if being absorbed into the material. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stop.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You… everything… is everything alright there..?” I ask, feeling a little stupid as I prod gingerly at the material. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It appears unblemished, unmarked, as if my blood never touched it.The Shiftweave slides against my touch, soft and welcoming, and I get a sense of — I don’t know what exactly.Satisfaction?Pleasure?The Shiftweave seems to purr contentedly before settling back upon my skin.I approach the large mirror in my bedroom and stare at my reflection, at the ripple of subtle color emanating from my tunic’s hem as it slowly weaves itself longer and longer until it falls to my ankles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I breathe.<em>“Oh.”</em>I grin at my reflection and she grins back.“That’s <em>interesting.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beneath my gaze, the Shiftweave reforms itself, growing somehow more resplendent than any garment I’ve ever seen.It gleams with a captivating sort of beauty, a strange jewel-like quality that is furthered when, with a series of popping sounds, real jewels spring into reality, lining the tunic’s collars and cuffs.I laugh, amazed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, that is really something,” I say, slightly breathless.“It’s a bit much for today, but — well.I do like it.Love it, I think.Amazing.”I reach down and run the fabric between my thumb and forefinger.It’s somehow grown even softer, more sumptuous than any cloth I’ve felt before, supple and lithe against my skin.“Very interesting…” I breathe.“Let’s see what you can do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend the next hour or so putting the Shiftweave through its paces, delighting as it responds eagerly under my touch.Now that length is not an issue, many possibilities have opened before me.I scour my closet impatiently, reassessing both my own wardrobe and those garments which I stole from Pavani.I end my hunt relatively successfully, coming away with yesterday’s cream bandeau and a matching pair of slim-fitted trousers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bandeau covers little more than my bust area and so does not obscure much of my Bond mark, but I think I may have finally figured out an alternative solution.Over the past week or so, while my primary goal has been to keep an eye on Allene, I have also had time and cause to better study the fashions of courtly women.It’s not something that previously I paid much mind — that is, other than in the ways the clothing flattered and revealed the wearers’ forms — but now that I have some stake in the topic, it is less boring than I previously thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I focus on the Shiftweave, watching in the mirror as it pulls away from my body, growing into full, loose folds that fall freely to the floor.The sleeves recede until I am wearing a long tabard-like overdress, left open at the front and sides.I cinch the front half at the waist with a length of thin golden cord so that the front opening forms a long V shape over my breast and closes just beneath my chest while the back end of the giornea falls away from my body freely.This still leaves two parts of my mark revealed: the horizontal slashes cut just beneath my shoulders and, more conspicuously, the tail of the central line that races up my sternum. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My shoulders are easily dealt with.I dig through my hoard of shiny trinkets until I find a set of matching golden bangles that I nicked several years back from an older gentleman I had just bedded.I think he’d meant to gift them to his wife.I slap these on my upper arms, fussing with them until they conceal the marks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My sternum is a slightly more complicated matter.It takes me several minutes to sort through the rest of my hoard — searching even parts of it that I keep stashed away in secret places in case someone gets the bright idea to pilfer <em>my</em> belongings — until I find a necklace that is large enough to perform as needed.I fasten the clasp at the back of my neck and then arrange it so it falls properly.When I regard myself in the mirror, I have to step back, my eyes going round like saucers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Holy fuck,” I breathe as I stare at my own reflection.“Damn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look, well, <em>beautiful.</em>I always look good — how could I not?But something about the cut of the giornea, the golden accents at my shoulders, wrists, waist, and neck… </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch, wide eyed, as the Shiftweave’s color fades to a soft, pale pink.Gold thread knits itself into the fabric, forming a simple but beautiful pattern that echoes the finery of my jewelry.I swallow, feeling suddenly and strangely emotional.I’ve never worn pink before.It’s not a color that I typically enjoy, nor a color I ever thought would suit me.Perhaps it’s the way the gold reflects in the light or some strange luminescence of the Shiftweave itself, but I feel as if I am somehow glowing, radiant.This is not a thought I usually have about the human version of my body.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t think, before this, that I ever truly cared about the form of my human vessel.I have my vanity, of course, but for the most part I have maintained my shift in the way I felt was most comfortable.When Caed shot up another several inches after he should have been long done with puberty, I decided not to follow him because growing bones is a pain in the ass even when done the slow, human way, and is exponentially worse when done quickly and intentionally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I exit my chambers with a pep in my step and a serene smile on my face.It doesn’t last.As soon as the door closes behind me, I am brought face to face with Fidelity as she makes her way down the hall in the direction of Allene’s chambers.She halts mid-stride and stares at me, her eyes all wide and shocked, her mouth gone pinched in the middle.With her unfortunate red hair frizzing out around her face she looks somewhat like an overlarge, gaping goldfish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Err,” I say awkwardly.“Good afternoon.”This wasn’t how I expected my identity to be revealed but, all things considered, it could be far worse.This way, when she starts to yell at me I can just escape back into my room and slam the door in her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae,” she says, sounding a bit winded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I startle, shocked that I’ve somehow not been caught out.I approach her cautiously and eventually she holds her arm out to me.I take it.She starts forward just half a second after I do.Our arms jostle into each other as we struggle to walk in concert, each attempting to match the other’s rhythm.It takes an embarrassingly long time for us fall into step together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You look lovely,” Fidelity says into the yawning silence between us.“I… I hope he appreciated it.”Her voice quavers slightly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stop dead in my tracks.Fidelity continues forward, her arm pulling at mine before she pauses and turns back slightly to glance my way.Suddenly, it fits into place: yesterday’s conversation and, now, the sight of me — or, rather, Lady Fae — exiting my chambers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, feeling myself flush.“He—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t need to talk about it,” she says in a rush. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She says it forcefully and I think, rather, she means “I don’t want to hear of it.”She lays her free hand upon my arm and smiles up at me.Privately, I am relieved, for I had not yet thought of anything to say.We stand there for another moment just looking at one another.There is a hesitance in the air between us, a clumsy tension as we both wait for the other to speak.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it grows to be unbearable, I break the silence.“Thank you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity nods and smiles, relieved, and we resume our trajectory down the hall.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we arrive at the door to Allene’s chambers, Daffodil is there to greet us.They bow, low and neat, and then give the door a resolute knock before opening it.We enter, Fidelity drawing back politely to allow me in first.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s parlor is a wide room — larger, in fact, than my own, which I resent.It’s the sort of room that’s meant to host a party of thirty or so, but is currently nearly empty.The room is decorated in that rich, carefully impersonal way that so many of the less lived-in palace rooms are.Everything is very coordinated: from the bright white walls embellished with golden accents, to the pale blue and gold settees, the ivory mantle, the cream colored armchairs, and the dark-stained tables and bookshelves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At one end of the room sits a large black grand piano that has been polished to such a high shine that I can see the ceiling’s golden trim reflected in its cover, which has been laid flat so that several small framed paintings and a vase of color coordinated flowers may be displayed atop it.The only part of the room that displays any measure of Allene’s personality is the shelves: they’ve been stuffed to bursting with books, thick ones, the sort that give me a headache just by looking at them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Opposite me, at the far end of the room, sits the mantle and the fireplace below it.It’s not lit currently, as the late spring weather is too warm to require it.Before the fireplace, Allene lounges in a large, plush armchair, a heavy book in her lap.She sits with her feet tucked up neatly to one side, her hips swiveled, one elbow resting upon the arm of the chair, her chin perched atop the slope of her hand.When we enter, she looks up and smiles, first at me and then at Fidelity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ladies,” she says, her voice taking on a warmth I’m unaccustomed to hearing from her — at least while she’s speaking to me.“It’s so good to see you again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Situated in front of Allene’s chair, there sits a long, low table made of dark polished wood.Its sides are decorated with intricate carvings inlaid with gold filigree.On its longer dimension, the table is bracketed by a set of matching couches in a pale powder blue.Clemence occupies the one to my right, sitting on the end closest to Allene.She regards me coolly, her darks eyes narrowing as they settle on my face.Her brow pinches in the middle just beneath her severe center part.I’ve always thought she rather looked like a stuffy, disapproving governess, but she does so now more than ever before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please, sit,” Allene continues. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I veer immediately to the left couch.I try to take the seat at the back end, the one furthest from both Allene and Clemence, but Fidelity follows behind me instead of taking to the opposite settee.I’m too surprised by this to counter it and so I wind up planted on the side closest to the fireplace, Allene to my left, Clemence directly opposite me.As I settle into the seat cushions, our eyes meet, and Clemence sniffs disdainfully in my direction.I scowl back at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance around the room.We’re only using around a third of it, and apart from the four of us — and, of course, Sieglinde, who is seated several feet away — the room is empty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this everyone?” I ask, surprised.“I had assumed—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door opens with a dramatic whoosh and Lysithea strides in.Behind her, Daffodil stands, their hand raised as if they were just about to knock.Mingled irritation and amusement form in the subtle crook of their brow, the slight pursing of their lips.It’s such a small reaction and yet it is the most emotion I’ve seen them display thus far.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Afternoon, ladies,” Lysithea says grandly.She strides forward to drop artfully into the opposite couch’s remaining open space.She reclines languidly, stretching her body across the settee’s cushioned back.“Did you miss me?”She grins flirtatiously at Fidelity, who goes faintly red, and then at myself.I roll my eyes in response.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A loud snap sounds directly to my left and I jolt in my seat, stilling as I realize that it was only the sound of Allene closing her book.She shifts in her seat, tucking the tome into the side of her chair between its plush arm and her hip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, this is everyone,” she says with a smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Daffodil must have coordinated service with the arrival of the last guest, for as Allene speaks the door opens again and two servants bustle inside.They move carefully around us as they set the low table with all manner of tea, coffee, and small foods.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first few minutes, our gathering is quiet save for the hushed sounds of eating and drinking.There is a distinct awkwardness to the mood, as if now that we are all assembled, none of us quite know how to move on from yesterday’s conclusion.Finally, Fidelity sits up straight and pulls a pouch from her pocket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t we play a game!” she suggests loudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What sort of game?” Lysithea asks, perking up ever so slightly from her leisurely recline.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Fidelity grins.She opens the pouch and from it she draws a deck of playing cards. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought we might be in need of these today.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shuffles the deck expertly, a loud <em>zzzzzwhip</em> ripping from the cards as they flutter between her fingers.As she deals out the entire deck, she begins to rattle out a set of rules.It’s simple enough — a trick taking game with a couple regional eccentricities.I hold my cards close to my chest, glancing down at them now and again every time I forget the contents of my hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">During the first round everyone is a bit stiff, but when Fidelity easily sweeps us something in the atmosphere loosens and releases.Allene gestures for Sieglinde to draw up a chair on the other side of the table and Fidelity deals her in.Between Sieglinde and Fidelity, there is an accumulated lack of guile that near makes up for the chicanery emanating from the couch opposite me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We chat amicably as we play, never anything more serious or personal than ribbing each other on our strategies or complaining at a particularly bad hand we’ve been dealt.It’s… relieving.Three hands in I realize I’m actually having <em>fun </em>— though of course that is precisely when Fidelity deals me the worst hand of my life.As I stare down at my cards, I pull a face, my mouth pinching into a bitter pucker.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s wrong?” Lysithea jeers.“Bad hand?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I say hotly.“I’m just thinking about how bad you’re all going to feel when I thoroughly trounce the lot of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lose immediately and gracelessly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm, what was that about trouncing us?” Fidelity asks, laughing.To my surprise, I have discovered that she has quite the competitive streak within her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, shut it,” I reply crossly, and throw myself into the couch’s back with a protracted sigh.“Ugh, why am I so shit at this!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you admit it, then,” Lysithea replies with a deeply smug grin.I glare at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” Allene cuts in.Her voice is falsely casual in a way that tells me that I’ll be on the shit end of whatever her next statement is.“You’d be much better at this game if you could bluff at all convincingly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do <em>fine,” </em>I reply grouchily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You really, really don’t,” Fidelity says with the deeply consoling tone of a woman quietly telling her friend that, no, orange is <em>not</em> her color.She lays a hand upon my knee and slowly and solemnly shakes her head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae, you couldn’t lie convincingly to save your life,” Allene says, her words bubbling with mirth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh, whatever!” I say and slouch down in my seat.Hah!Little does she know that I’m fooling the lot of them.Stupid, silly humans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Play progresses and while Fidelity may have dominated our games at the head, the playing field grows much more even once we have all become more accustomed to the rules — that is, until Clemence starts winning. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She plays a calm and collected game, her face cool and unreadable, the movement of her hands perfunctory and unexpressive.She is an unstoppable force and even Sieglinde, who is both perpetually cheerful and entirely hopeless regardless of whosoever wins any particular hand, seems a little put off by it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity steadily deteriorates into a state of madness and I fear for the longevity of her teeth as she continues to grind them more and more with every trick Clemence takes over her.I’m surprised when it is Lysithea, rather than Fidelity, who first throws down her cards in irritation.They flutter about the air, scattering haphazardly across the table and floor.One lands in Clemence’s tea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh!” she exclaims wearily.“I’ve had enough of this.Next.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No one argues.We set our cards down, though rather more gently than she.I think we are, all of us, rather tired of being beaten by Clemence, who just sits there looking smug as a swan.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Giving up so soon?” Clemence asks serenely.“What a shame.”She leans forward and sets her hand down upon the table before placidly plucking Lysithea’s card from her teacup.“I was just getting warmed up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity full on glares at Clemence, which would have been shocking to me had I not seen her stand up and stomp her feet angrily at a particularly infuriating round just minutes before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you were, were you?” she asks, seething.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An evil grin breaks slowly like a massive wave upon the still waters of Clemence’s face.Before she can reply, Lysithea cuts in.“That last round.How did you know?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Know what?” Clemence asks, her eyes still intent on Fidelity’s face.Unflinching, she takes a sip of her tea.I think she does it just to fuck with us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That I was bluffing,” Lysithea says on a huff of air.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Clemence replies.“Easy.When you’ve a winning hand, your entire body radiates a sort of sublime smugness.I can practically see it oozing from your pores.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea frowns.“But I had shit cards, like, <em>all game.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Precisely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I relax back into my seat, feeling a sort of deep contentment within me.I should be wary, on the prowl, looking for anything I can use against Allene, but my heart just isn’t in it.I don’t think I even particularly like anyone here — except maybe Fidelity — but it’s… nice, in a way.It’s nice to feel normal, to do silly, unimportant things with people unbothered by my nature; to be treated, for once, as human. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slouch over the side of the couch, frowning, and pick absently at a loose thread in the upholstery.That’s never been a thing I’ve wanted before: to be treated as a human.It’s odd.I don’t dislike how I am or what I am.I don’t want to <em>be</em> human.But still, for some reason there is a strangeness within me, a vague hollowness, a sort of indefinable discomfort, like my human shape is a tunic I’ve done up with the buttons misaligned by one hole.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae.”I rouse from my thoughts to find Allene looking at me intently.When I cock my head to one side, she smiles.“I’ve been thinking for some time — you have such beautiful hair… may I?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’ve passed several hours leisurely and now the sun is nearing its setting.Its light streams in through the window, low and golden and bright.My hair gleams with it, tumbling down my shoulders and back like a gentle river at sunset, its surface reflecting that brilliant gold.Not entirely certain what Allene means to do, I nod all the same.She stands and approaches me.I shift to the couch’s middle cushion so that she can take the space I vacated to my left.She leans my way and delicately takes my hair in hand.I fidget in place, feeling awkward, but not in a bad way.Her fingers comb delicately through my hair.She splits it into three sections and begins to braid it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stereotypical, I know,” she says, laughing.“Women getting together to braid each other’s hair.Next we should do our nails and talk about boys.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We already did that one,” Fidelity interjects. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back at her.The same golden light that shines upon me lays deliciously thick across her and the rest of the room.It feels a near tangible thing, a layer of brilliance that makes everything look soft and beautiful and romantic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right you are,” Allene replies, her voice easy and unbothered. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hands are so practiced and so gentle.I’ve never had long hair before and so it’s surprising to me when I can feel the movement of my hair as she braids it.It’s not the same as other forms of contact, the directness of skin on skin.It’s like a whisper in place of a shout, a faint breeze contrasted by a maelstrom.It’s not unpleasant.Allene is careful with me, never pulling or tugging.It’s a strangely intimate moment: the soft hush of the room, her body leaned close to mine, my hair in her hands, the light of the dying sun turning everything dreamy and golden.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You could do better than him, you know,” Lysithea says from across the room.She has her legs crossed one over the other, a strange look on her face.I can’t tell if she is addressing myself or Allene.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“H… what?” I ask unsteadily.“Who?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea nods back at me.<em>“You</em> know…”She gives me a meaningful look.I frown.Perhaps Lysithea really does believe my disguise — or perhaps this is her way of being an absolute shit and making a real fool out of me in front of the others.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was under the impression that he was <em>quite</em> impressive, actually,” I say, taking great pains to make my voice as lofty and full of reproach as possible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside me, Allene huffs a small laugh somewhere in the vicinity of my ear.Fidelity is frowning.Sieglinde looks from Lysithea to myself, her face twisted with confusion.Clemence merely sips her tea in silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, <em>well,”</em> Lysithea begins, sounding very much as if she doesn’t agree with me.Her words are accompanied by an eye roll so pronounced I’m surprised she doesn’t strain her ocular muscles.“However impressive he is or is not, it doesn’t matter.He isn’t serious about you.So you can fawn after that useless drake all you want, but once he’s done with you he’ll leave you heartbroken and empty-handed while he continues on to whatever young new plaything he finds.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I suck in a sharp breath, my cheeks growing hot with anger.“Is that so?” I ask, struggling valiantly to keep my voice level.She’s — well — she’s not <em>wrong, </em>but it’s the principal of the thing!Here we are, having a perfectly nice moment, and she has to go and ruin it.Typical.“And I suppose <em>you</em> have no ulterior motive in saying this, do you?You’re just looking out for my well being, is that it?”I glare at her.“Are you such a fool that you do not know your own reputation?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room is hushed, the tension walking that fine dagger’s edge between an argument that can be calmed and one that can’t.I take the blade and plunge it directly into Lysithea’s breast — metaphorically speaking, of course. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If I were to bed you tonight, what would you do, hmm?” I ask. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hands have stilled in my hair.She’s nearly finished with the braid.I can feel the light pressure of her fingers at my mid-back.To my right, Fidelity is wide-eyed and flustered. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surely, for one throwing such aspersions, why, you’d think it a matter of honor!Because this issue — the issue <em>here</em> is his lack of propriety and not, instead, that you’d rather I had bedded <em>you.</em>Why, there’s such a world of difference between the two of you and the way you treat your sexual conquests!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene attempts to interject, but I barrel on, shaking her hands off me.My eyes remain locked upon Lysithea’s horrid face, upon the anger that is steadily draining out of her face to be replaced by something much, much worse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why, Lysithea, for <em>you</em> the natural recourse would be to sink down on one knee at first light the morning after and promise to wed me, would it not?After all, you’re such a <em>fine, upstanding</em> character who prizes not only integrity, but fidelity.”It’s awkward phrasing in this company, I know, but I can’t think of a better word.I hear an intake of breath from Fidelity and then feel her shift back and away from me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Across the table, Lysithea is staring at me slack jawed, her silver eyes gone nearly white in the late daylight.She looks sincerely taken aback in a way I’ve never seen before — lost for words as would be normal for anyone other than her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Grimly satisfied, I press on.“This is why no one takes you seriously,” I hiss.My voice is poison, my words are the twist of the knife.There is a moment when we all very try very hard <em>not</em> to look at Allene, and if the princess has any inkling of it, I haven’t the faintest clue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something like pain — actual, genuine pain — surfaces in Lysithea’s face.For the most part, she just looks shocked, sucker punched by my cruelty.She sits there, still and utterly hollow.My skin prickles with tension.Silence rains down like a monsoon, heavy and choking.No one dares to speak.In the time between heartbeats, entire kingdoms rise and fall.And Lysithea just sits there, silent and hurt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, she plants her feet firmly on the floor and stands up.Allene begins to rise after her but Lysithea shakes her head mutely, still looking for all the world as if she’s seen a ghost.She turns and makes for the door.The soft click as it closes behind her is near deafening.We all sit frozen, not a one of us daring to speak, as if by staying very still we could make things normal again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not sustainable.As it is with all humans, eventually the innate awkwardness of the body wins out.Fidelity’s head draws back and she hastily retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket before sneezing violently into it.I shift uncomfortably in place and then stand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should—” I begin but Allene cuts me off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think that is all for today’s gathering,” she says, sounding weary.“Lady Fae, if you would, I’d like for you to stay.I think we should talk.”I nod mutely, knowing I’ve thoroughly fucked up.Allene turns her attention to her guard.“Sir Sieglinde, I won’t be requiring your services for the rest of the evening.You may guard outside the door with Hazley if you’d rather, but I know you had mentioned a newly opened chocolate shop you’d wished to visit..?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sieglinde flushes and stands.She opens her mouth to bumble a reply, but Allene speaks over her.“I’d rather like it if you got a sampling for me as well, if you would.Here.”She pauses and digs through her pocket for a moment to retrieve a small pouch.This, she tosses casually to Sieglinde, and when the guard catches it I hear the distinct clink of coinnage.Sieglinde nods, bows, and exits the room.The rest soon follow, leaving Allene and I alone together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shuffle my feet, shifting stiffly in place, uncertain if I should take a seat beside Allene or perhaps if I should sit at the other couch or something.I’m poised awkwardly at the moment, standing in the narrow space between the couch and the table.Allene sits at the couch’s center, her knee near brushing mine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I finally stop avoiding her eye, I find her regarding me steadily.I purse my lips, feeling simultaneously righteous and guilty.I wasn’t wrong about Lysithea — and I didn’t paint myself (my true self, that is) in a particularly good light either — but I still feel like I fucked up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please just sit down,” Allene says wearily.She scooches over until her back rests against the far arm of the couch, leaving a wide space for me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to,” I reply stubbornly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The look Allene shoots me is downright ugly.“Fine!” she says, clearly done with my bullshit.“Don’t sit.But we’re still going to talk.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scowl at her.“Was I wrong?” I demand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe not in the literal sense, but you still shouldn’t have said that,” she replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was true,” I mutter.I shrink into myself, my arms moving to wrap around my torso.“And I despise hypocrites.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And it was intentionally hurtful.”She regards me evenly.She doesn’t look as if she is upset with me, at least not in the way I was expecting.Rather, it seems there is some other sort of intent in her dark eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe,” I concede. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sighs, knowing it’s likely as good an admission as she’ll get.Under her steady gaze I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, itchy and squeezed tight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was hoping you were getting a bit better,” she says eventually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon…”Her voice is soft, expectant.I freeze in place.My fingers dig into the soft flesh of my upper arms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” I breathe, my heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out wrong: high pitched, panicked, a quaver in my throat.“What are you talking ab—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be so boorish,” she cuts through on a sigh.I recoil instinctively.Allene leans forward and pours herself a cup of tea.She waves a hand absently in my direction as she takes a sip.“The whole ‘what, no, what are you talking about?’ bit — that doesn’t need to be a thing.As we’ve already established, you’re a dreadful liar.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She looks back up at me, her nose wrinkled distastefully over the rim of her cup.I feel strangely deflated — like a ship stranded at sea, born by virulent winds to unknown waters and then succinctly abandoned, left under a bright blue sky with slack sails and a floundering crew.The storm might have been terrifying, but at least there was something there to fight against.This strange lack of anything to fight — I don’t know how to handle it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My protests die on my lips.Slowly, I sink back upon the couch.I feel heavy and sodden through, a wet timber slowly being eaten away by rot.Allene pours another cup of tea and hands it to me.I take it.My hand is shaking so badly the tea nearly spills.Allene gestures for me to drink some and I do so, unfeeling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do the others know?” I ask, numb.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shrugs.“I don’t <em>think</em> so.”She pulls her feet up onto the couch with her, shifting her body until she is able to tuck them in against herself.“I think if Lysithea had worked it out, she’d have been much smarter about…”Here Allene pauses, her face screwing up in thought.“Well.Everything.And I don’t think she’d have been so hurt.She probably would have found your whole diatribe quite funny, actually.”The fingers of her free hand tap absently upon her knee.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it <em>was</em> a bit, you know?I mean, it was incredibly tactless, but also, just — look, knowing that you’re, well, <em>you.”</em>She makes eyes at me meaningfully.“It was all rather absurd, honestly.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I collapse slowly in upon myself in utter mortification.I feel as if Allene has a hold of my innards and is slowly ringing them dry and, worse, is doing so in a quite unbothered sort of way, as if this is all very normal and she is, in fact, trying to do me a kindness.I think maybe I’d prefer it if she <em>were</em> upset with me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“At any rate, I haven’t told anyone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My head snaps up and I stare at her.Allene just laughs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I didn’t see any need to.It’s not as if you’re causing any real harm — at least, not that I can tell.Besides, I only just confirmed my suspicions today.”I frown at her.Seeing my confusion, she gestures towards the general area of my torso.“The Shiftweave,” she explains.“I’d had my suspicions before, but that was the undeniable proof.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course.Sun above, I am a fucking idiot.It was Allene who identified it in the first place.I was a fool to think she wouldn’t recognize it.And she orchestrated it perfectly: placing herself at my side, her hands easily able to brush the fabric at my back and shoulders while she braided my hair, all the while behaving as if nothing at all was afoot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sets her cup back upon the table and then shifts to her knees.She leans forward, one hand pressed into the couch cushions to support her weight, the other raising to run a finger down the neckline of the Shiftweave, from my clavicle to just above my breast.The fabric’s color morphs and swirls beneath her touch, a shimmering oil slick, a quiet rainbow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It looks good on you,” she says, and smiles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well… it can look like pretty much anything, so…” I begin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shakes her head.“That’s not what I mean.”She’s very close now.Her voice is soft, almost gentle.The touch of her finger is light, a whisper.Her breath ghosts warm across my face.“There is a concert here,” she says, running the fabric between her fingers.“A compatibility.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My eyes flicker over her face and down to the considerable swell of her bosom.Even in a moment like this, I can’t help it.With her leaning forward like this and with her bodice cut with her preferred sweeping neckline, it’s quite the view. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It seems that you suit each other, as you are both somewhat amorphous.”When she looks at me like that, all intent, I could very easily mistake her intentions for something of an entirely different nature.I swallow uncomfortably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My voice stills in my throat.Allene looks down at me intently.Gold light kisses her dark hair where it cascades down her brown shoulders, limning her body with a honeyed sweetness.Her face is steady, close enough to mine that it is in shadow.She smells of rose and mint and of the spiced black tea on her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How much are you able to shift?” she asks.Her voice is quiet, but through it I can hear a low thrum of excitement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uhm,” I say intelligently.“I mean, a lot?I can shift pretty much however I want, but I have to know the relevant anatomy.”I think this is perhaps the most interested Allene has ever been in something I have had to say.“But the more complicated it is and the less familiar I am with it, the longer it takes.”She nods thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to see it.”Her gaze holds mine.My back rests against the arm of the couch.She’s leaned in towards me so very close, her hand resting on the back of the settee, her eyes dilated as they fix me in place, like a pin thrust through a butterfly’s thorax.I feel trapped, almost, and I’m not certain if it’s in a bad way.“If you’d let me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod, my throat too thick for speech.I close my eyes and focus.It’s more difficult without a mirror, so I choose something simple: my lips.I distill my focus to that single point, to the soft swell of muscle and nerves beneath that delicate layer of skin.I can feel the pigment shift, the gentle gradation of sun-kissed gold to flushed coral.Where my intention lingers, the flesh tingles.Under Allene’s watchful gaze, my lips grow thick and plump and deepen in color.I’m not sure how far to go with the last bit.Pigment work isn’t my strong suit and even less so without a mirror. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stop, suddenly, startled from my concentration by the feeling of something against my lips — her thumb, gentle, but insistent.I open my eyes, blinking slowly against the light.Allene’s face is lit up with a sort of rapt hunger.Her breath ghosts quick and hot over my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Incredible,” she says.Her thumb runs over the line of my upper lip and then down the curve of my lower.Her index finger pushes into the soft underside of my chin, tilting my head so that she may examine me better.“Do your people know you can do this?” she asks.Her voice is a soft rasp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift in place.“No,” I say.“It’s not something we’re meant to go flaunting.Besides, I don’t make much use of it, usually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm,” she hums, still much too close.“Pity.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stays there studying me for some time.After the first minute or so, my heartbeat settles somewhat.It’s a strange moment, awkward and tense, but not nearly as much as it should be.Her eyes never meet mine, but they are intent upon me all the same. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you mind if I tried?” Allene asks, breaking the silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmmmmwhat?” I mumble, my mind congealed like expired soup, my limbs heavy, as if I’ve just roused from a late day nap that lasted far too long.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s eyes flick up to mine and she smiles.“Your shift,” she answers.“I’d like to see if I am able to manipulate it with magic.”I frown up at her, my nose wrinkling in distaste.“I’ll not do anything <em>major,”</em> she says.“And I’ll stop as soon as you ask.If it’s uncomfortable or — I don’t know.Just.”Allene sits back on her heels and bites her lip.She looks almost nervous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know what makes me agree.I must be a fucking idiot.I don’t even <em>like</em> Allene.In fact, I hate her!Although, in total honestly, after the past week I’m not certain I can say that is entirely true.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene beams at me and slides off the couch.She practically runs into her sleeping chamber, returning scarcely a minute later with a pouch in one hand and a large book in the other.Bemused, I drain my teacup and set it down upon the table before reclining against the plush arm of the settee, my legs crossed before me.I’m sure this is going to be both horribly unpleasant and a waste of my time, but I’ve already agreed.Besides, I am somewhat curious myself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene settles in close beside me, the swell of her thigh resting against my knees as she thumbs through the massive tome.My instinct was correct: it is incredibly boring.She spends a lot of time reading, her hair tucked back neatly behind her ear, her brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of her pink tongue just peeking out from betwixt her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Every now and then she pauses to ask me a question — about how my shift feels, how long it took me to assume human form, what that process was like.To my surprise, I find myself answering eagerly.No one’s asked me about this before.It’s always been something assumed of me: that I should be able to maintain human form easily.All my predecessors have done so, and so it is expected.When I tell Allene of my studies, of the long painful years of toil, and of my recent experimentation, she looks genuinely impressed, and my chest puffs up with pride.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then the experiments begin.She’ll pluck something from her pouch — a dried flower petal or a precious stone or an iridescent feather or a curiously blue powder suspended within a tiny glass jar — and present it to me before asking if I <em>feel</em> anything.And, usually, I do, though it isn’t often much.Frequently, it’s like listening to loud music being played several rooms away, muffled by space and stone alike.I can sense a vague resonance, the base rhythm, but it’s neither clear nor enjoyable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Infuriatingly, though I grow quickly frustrated, Allene doesn’t seem at all perturbed by this.She has me do some weird breathing exercises that are meant to “center me” or “put me in concert with my own core.”It’s horrifically dull.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“None of this is working,” I point out irritably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene waves a hand at me dismissively without looking up from her book.“That’s not unusual.”The index finger of her other hand trails down the length of the page.“There’s still much to try.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a long, protracted groan and slump back against the arm of the chair.This, finally, seems to rouse her.She peers over at me and frowns, the skin between her brows knitting together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” she says, and closes the book with a snap.I jolt in place and shoot her a glare.“I’ll do more research later on my own time.”She smiles at me and reaches forward, I think to touch my shoulder, but then pauses, her hand stilled in the air before me.“Feon,” she says, her voice gone soft and somewhat higher than usual.She looks at me thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” I say, grimacing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to try one last thing.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes at her but then nod.“Just get on with it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sets aside her book and her pouch and then rummages within her pocket.“Here,” she says, drawing out a plain looking ring. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The band is a smooth, polished silver that dips into a V shape in the center, pointed like a dainty circlet.Above the dip rests a small stone, a perfectly cylindrical bead of amber.Within the stone are flecks of something darker, chaotically dispersed like detritus in the wind.They sit, frozen in amber, giving the stone more dimension than its small form should yield.Beyond that, at the stone’s very center, a dark bead is suspended.I hold the ring up to my face and try to get a better look at the amber’s contents, but it’s much too small to make out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go on,” Allene says eagerly.“Touch it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown at her and press the pad of my thumb to the stone.“Oh,” I say, a bit breathless.Beneath the whorl of my skin, the amber hums, low and steady and warm.I know, instantly, that whatever this is, it is much more magic than the other things — and also, I think that it likes me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” Allene asks, leaning in.Her dark eyes gleam with impatience.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I mean, there’s definitely <em>something,”</em> I answer.“What is it?”I hand the ring back to where her hand waits, outstretched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” she replies.She slips the ring on to her middle finger.Nestled amongst her other much more ornate jewelry, it looks a little sad.“I found it some years ago tucked away in an old musty box in my family’s storage.I poured over our records, but couldn’t find it listed amongst our listed family heirlooms or trinkets, magical or not.So…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you took it,” I say, brow raised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene grins back at me.“Well it wasn’t doing anyone else any good, now, was it!And it wasn’t important enough to be recorded or to be at all warded, so!”With that last word she makes a flourish with the hand that bears the amber ring.“Here we are.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She reaches forward and rests her hand over my upper arm, her fingers curling just under the golden bangles that conceal my mark.Her touch is gentle and her skin is warm.In the quiet of the room, I can hear her breathing, a soft constant in the absence of her voice.Where the metal of her rings press into my skin, it is cool — all save for one instance, which is steadily heating above Allene’s body temperature.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I breathe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My skin is alight.All of a sudden, I feel very conscious of my body and all of its sensations: the soft shiver of the Shiftweave against my skin, the plush give of the couch cushion beneath me, the faint current of air in the still room, the taste of my tongue in my mouth and the last lingering hint of tea on my lips, the scent of Allene bent close before me, the whisper of her breath on my skin.Sweat beads down the back of my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aha!” Allene exclaims triumphantly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I jolt from my reverie, wide eyed and befuddled.Allene’s hand draws back from my arm and that heat leaves with her.I glance down at my arm and then gawk.Where her hand once rested, my skin has turned a bright red, like the violent impression of a hard slap, only impossibly vivid. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was me, wasn’t it?” she demands.“You didn’t just do that to humor me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, pulling a face.“I <em>hate</em> doing color work.Why do you think I barely managed this?”I gesture irritably at my eyes and hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs, breathy and immensely pleased with herself.She grins at me so widely I think her cheeks must ache with it.“I was wondering about that,” she says.Allene holds her hand up to her face, palm out, fingers flexed elegantly, and inspects the ring for a few moments.“I want to try form, too,” she says, unable to mask the fervor that burns within her.Her voice quivers with barely withheld excitement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel much more dubious about that prospect.“Mmmm,” I say noncommittally.“I don’t know about that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, come onnnn,” she wheedles.She puts her hands together beseechingly, her face forming into an expression of mock solemnity.“I promise I’ll be very careful.”My eyes narrow.“I’d owe you a favor,” she continues, her voice turning soft and breathy.My chin jerks forward.She smiles.“That got your attention, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What sort of favor?” I demand, unable to disguise my interest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing extreme,” she replies firmly.“Like, I won’t dissolve my betrothal or harm Caederyn — or anyone else, for that matter — but I’ll keep my word.I swear it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I huff out a breath and stare back at her.She meets my gaze evenly.“Are you going to tell Caed about this?” I ask, stalling for time.The promise of a favor is quite enticing, particularly when I should be able to undo her work without too much effort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About what specifically?” Allene asks, frowning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug.“I don’t know.Just…”I gesture to myself, to the room, to the space between us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t decided yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, some wife you’ll make,” I mutter snidely, rolling my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s head tilts to one side.Her lips purse.“And I suppose you’ll tell him, then?About how you’ve been spying on me?Following me around?”I suck in a violent breath.“Yes, Feon, I figured out that was you after I sussed you out.I noticed ‘Lady Fae’ attempting to tail me — poorly — but I had assumed she — you — well I thought it was some plot by someone who wished to jealously covet Caederyn’s hand in marriage.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I splutter eloquently. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes narrow in thought.“Well, I suppose I wasn’t entirely wrong.You did seek to covet Caederyn — but it is his heart you are after rather than his throne.”My face is growing hotter by the second.Allene regards me coolly.I absolutely hate the knowing look on her face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I had been wondering, you know,” she continues, her voice dropping to a low purr.“Who would have such political aspirations but would so thoroughly and ridiculously bungle the cover story for their so-called covert agent.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off!” I cry, jumping to my feet.The intimacy of the moment, that fragile benevolence between us, has shattered.“You don’t know <em>anything about me!”</em> I yell, my voice strained with emotion.“And you barely know Caed!You just — you don’t get to just show up and — and—o”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene rises to her feet.She’s so much taller than I am and she uses every bit of that extra height to her advantage.“I think I know enough,” she says, cutting me off.The quiet peace of the previous moment feels fake now, a thin saccharine sheen that shattered all too easily at the first provocation.This is how it is between us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I back away awkwardly, my mobility limited by the furniture surrounding me.My eyes sting and I realize with a measure of shock that there are tears there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You took him from me!” I spit.The backs of my calves hit Allene’s arm chair and I step sideways, squeezing through the space between the chair and the couch.Allene follows me.“You took Caed!”My heart is beating wildly in my chest and my nose is filled with the smell of smoke.“It’s not <em>fair!”</em>My own emotion leaves me winded, my throat raw.The unfairness of it — it’s something I’ve felt, but never allowed myself to dwell upon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You want him?” Allene asks, advancing on me.“You haven’t done <em>shit</em> to fight for him!”Her voice rises, matching mine in volume, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her yell.“All you do is whine and pine and take out your resentment on me.It’s <em>pathetic.</em>Why would Caederyn want someone so wretchedly horrid?”I retreat further, anger and hurt and panic clawing at my throat.“You’d think, being a dragon, that you could have anyone.Everyone loves you, you know?<em>Everyone.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m shaking, I realize.Despite the golden scales racing up the lengths of my arms, I feel weak and frozen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you squander it.Instead of working for a damn thing — for your own happiness or for the man you claim to love — you sit back on your high horse and whine and then blame <em>me</em> for all your problems.”I retreat another step and my back hits the wall.“Well, I’m sick of it,” Allene rasps.“You can’t have everything you want.”She strides towards me with neither hesitation nor fear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, I find my voice.“You— You fucking—” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of my words devolve into a low guttural sound of anger that boils up from deep within me.Allene towers over me, an unrelenting monolith invading my space.I lurch forward, trying to push her back, to make her stumble away.She makes a sound of anger and shoves me forcefully into the wall, her hands solid against my sternum, her dark eyes glittering horribly back at me.My back hits the wall with a thud. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers sharpen, shredding the sleeves of her dress as they scrabble for purchase on her shoulders.A moment later, her lips are upon mine.I make a small surprised sound that catches on my tongue.She’s so close and so warm.My head is in turmoil.I feel angry and bitter and cheated and hurt — and so fucking into this.Into her.I sort of hate how easily I crumble, how readily my mouth opens to hers.Allene is infuriating and controlling and argumentative and she doesn’t give a fuck about who or what I am.There is no worship within her eyes, no fear.Her tongue is hot inside my mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hands press roughly into my sternum, fisting in the fabric there before they drop to the golden cord belting my waist.She tugs at one end of it and it comes untied.As the cord falls to the floor, the Shiftweave slips open.As if sensing the mood, the fabric slides down my shoulders, pooling in the juncture of my bent arms.I release Allene’s shoulders and let my arms straighten.The Shiftweave flutters to the floor with more grace than a piece of clothing should possess. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hands have sunk into my hair, her fingers threading into the golden waves, loosening it from its already failing braid.She gives a none too gentle tug, tipping my head back so she can more easily ravage my mouth.I run my hands down her shoulders and sides and hips, taking no small pleasure in the shredding of her silken dress as my golden claws sink into the fine material in pursuit of her skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She licks at my bottom lip and I can feel her smiling against me.My mouth feels full, my teeth grown large and sharp with emotion.Her tongue runs over one of my canines and I taste salt and copper as blood blooms within my mouth.Allene draws back sharply.This close, I can see that her eyes are not black, as I thought, but rather a very dark brown.Her pupils are blown wide and her chest is heaving.She runs the pad of her thumb along the underside of her tongue and it comes back red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare back at her, slightly winded, my body frozen with indecision.I can hear her breathing, feel the pressure of the air in my lungs and the heat in my throat.Her eyes are steady upon me, unwavering.This should be it.We’ve broken apart.Any moment now, either one of us could turn away, call it quits, break out of this utter insanity between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, I bite my bottom lip until it bleeds.It doesn’t take much pressure, not with how sharp my teeth have grown.Then, my own blood welling up over the swell of my mouth, I lean forward and kiss her again.Her body melts with mine.She pulls me to her, her hands on my hips.My arms wind around her neck as she bends to better meet my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She tugs me by the hips, moving me away from the wall, back through her parlor, and into her bed chamber.It’s a clumsy retreat.We falter and trip, feet stumbling into furniture and each other, not quite laughing when our knees knock together.I’ve made such an absolute wreckage of her gown that as we step through the threshold to her bedroom, it falls freely from her shoulders.Allene breaks away from my lips just long enough to laugh and then swivels us so I am before her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tall windows spread the length of two walls, taking up the corner behind Allene’s bed.Pale, gauzy curtains hang over them, filtering the last golden rays of the sun into something soft and hazy and delicate.Allene walks me back until my calves hit the rise of her bed.With a wicked grin, she shoves me with just enough force to send me tumbling down over the duvet.I sink into the soft mattress with barely a protest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s eyes rake over me with blatant interest.She meets my gaze and with heatedly deliberate movements, she unbuttons her petticoat and drawers and begins to unlace her stays.When they fall to the floor, she is left in a simple white slip that stretches tight over her dark breasts.Her knee presses into the foot of the bed next to where my calves dangle awkwardly.As the fabric rides up her upper thigh, I catch a glimpse of a simple garter latched tightly to her thin stockings.Damn.All of a sudden I feel incredibly parched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She plants herself there, one knee up on the mattress’s edge, her body leaned forward over mine.Her hands brush up the length of my thighs and then meet just below my navel.Here, she pauses, her fingers working deftly to undo the buttons of my trousers.She tucks her thumbs into the waistband, her nails pressing gently into my skin, and pulls.My trousers are fitted quite snugly.It takes a little time and a lot of wiggling to get me out of them.When Allene realizes I’m not wearing undergarments, her eyes flick up to meet mine and she grins in an almost predatory manner. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squirm in place, awkward and unused to the pooled slickness between my legs.The seat of my trousers is wet as well, the white of the fabric darkening much too blatantly for my pride.I can feel my face going red and I hate it.I look away from her, raising an arm to cover my face, knowing it won’t truly conceal my embarrassment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs and crawls forward, eclipsing my body with hers.Her hand slides over my still-clothed chest, her thumb ghosting over the small ridge of my nipple.My breath stutters in my throat.I feel the weight of her hair and the heat of her skin as she leans down to press a kiss to the side of my jaw.Her fingers find the tiny clasps at the front of the bandeau and undo them with ease.I am left naked before her, my face flushed, my nipples hard, my thighs wet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shifts above me, her weight settling back over my hips.Eventually, I brave a peek from under the edge of my forearm.She’s straddling my waist, her thighs spread wide around my hips, her knees bracketing either side of me.She stares down at me, her eyes hooded with intent.Behind her, the bed’s lush canopy stretches overhead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am going to ruin you,” Allene breathes, her voice full of a dark conviction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shiver.Expectation is a heady drug, one that rushes my veins without mercy.She places a hand upon my neck.Her fingers brush my pulse and then slide away, dragging down to my sternum and beyond, tracing the tail of my Bond mark.Her hand continues down, down, over my ribs and abdomen until they halt somewhere above my navel, at the point where my Bond mark begins.Her fingers leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake.I shudder slightly and marvel at the way my thighs clench involuntarily, as if tension could beat out the heat climbing within me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unable to bear it any longer, I surge upwards and sink my hands into the hair at the back of her head and tug her down towards me into a blistering kiss.The sharpness of my teeth has receded, but my hunger hasn’t.She leans into me, hot and heavy, the soft flesh of her breasts and stomach yielding to the shape of my body as we press together.The silky fabric of her slip slides against my bare skin.It’s cool and almost slippery to the touch.Allene bites at my lower lip before sucking it into her mouth and soothing over it with her tongue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she draws back, we part with an embarrassingly loud and wet sound.I laugh, or I do something that roughly approximates a laugh, unable to quite manage it under the heat of her gaze.Allene doesn’t seem bothered at all.She mouths down my chin to the line of my jaw and then over my throat.My breath catches there, next to my pulse, under the soft pressure of her lips, so that when my laughter leaves me it is a stilted bubbling, a reedy, disjointed mess of breathy giggles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shifts atop me, her hips raising into the air.I miss the weight of her and a disgruntled sound begins in the back of my throat before she moves again, shoving one of her knees between my thighs, spreading them open with ease.That sound within me turns into a needy whine as she angles forward, her knee pressing to the gathering heat of my cunt.The flesh there is sensitive and new, untried, the shape of it still strange in that it is mine.Allene laughs, free and open, her breasts spilling over the thin material of her slip.I’ve never fucked anyone like this, without a dick to evidence my arousal.I find myself strung out and awkward, uncertain of the mechanics at hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene bears no such doubt.“Come on,” she says, grinning down at me as she moves again, pressing against me, and when she does so I can see where the dark skin of her thigh glistens wetly from our contact. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel hot and wanting and almost hollow — not as if I need to be filled, necessarily, but as if I am missing something.Moving helps.Her hands cradle the paltry curves of my breasts and my hips jolt upwards, the slick skin of her thigh rubbing against the swell of my labia.My breath gusts through me in a single, sharp burst.Allene laughs again and tweaks one of my nipples.My thighs squeeze around her knee.She leans in against me and scrapes her teeth against the skin beneath my ear.My knees bend and my feet scrabble for purchase on the bed’s edge to give me leverage.I begin to rut against her leg, desperate for any sort of contact against my swollen clit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes and let my head fall back, focusing on the movement of my hips and the slick friction between my legs.Her hands rest over my breasts and she thumbs the nubs of my nipples.I jolt at her touch, my body a live wire.I feel something, a small band of slowly spreading fire.Heat flares in my chest.My skin tingles.I feel as if I’m being stretched.My eyes open to find the band of the amber ring resting atop my right breast.Allene’s hands are sunk deep into my chest, pressing into my tits with more give than they should have.As her hands pull back, my body follows, the soft tissues of my breasts blossoming beneath her fingers.I feel achey and strange, hot and uncomfortable and full — but not in a bad way.It’s like the moment before scratching an itch: the actual physical feeling of it is irritating, but the knowledge that I will soon find relief is deeply satisfying.I stare down my body, over the swell of my newly embiggened breasts, to where Allene ogles me openly, her eyes shining with something bright and hungry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” I say, breaking the silence.“I guess you owe me that favor now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene throws back her head and laughs, her mess of long dark curls framing her body like wild vines.“I suppose I do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift beneath her and revel in this strange new weight, the feeling of my tits spreading wide across my chest as they succumb to gravity’s influence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” I say as placidly as I am able, given that Allene’s fingers have once again searched out the locations of my nipples.“Are you just really into big tits or…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let my words trail off into the ether.My breasts are larger now for sure, but they’re still not nearly as big as I made them when I first assumed this form and they come nowhere close to matching Allene’s.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs again and rolls the nub of my nipple gently between her thumb and forefinger.It’s rather distracting.She shrugs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like all the shapes I’ve seen you take,” she replies coyly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shifts her weight, sinking down upon me.My heel skates down the duvet until my knee is lowered enough that she can settle fully upon my thigh.Her pussy is hot against my leg: a blistering, wet heat.The air between us smells like salt and lust and the honey sweet scent of her perfume.She leans forward and mouths over one of my nipples as her fingers continue to tease at the other one.Her hips writhe against me, her thighs squeezing my leg as she rides it, slowly, almost lazily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I gasp out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She pauses and glances up at me.“Hmm?” she hums.“Are we still talking about this?”I shoot her a look.She rolls her eyes.“I just wanted to try it,” she explains.“Before I make you cum so hard you pass out.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I make a choked sound of surprise.Allene grins back at me wolfishly.She lowers herself atop me again and sucks my nipple into her mouth.Her teeth scrape at the underside of my breast, just grazing my nipple before she draws back.I exhale a huff of frustration. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your body is perfect,” she muses, her eyes lidded and heavy as her gaze travels the length of me.I squirm.“So malleable…Already made of so much magic…”She breathes hotly against the wet skin of my breast.“I bet we could have a lot of fun with that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My head falls back into the soft mattress and I let out a small groan.As promising as that sounds, I do <em>not</em> want to stop in the middle of what we’re doing right now so that she can have another go at rearranging my parts.Allene smiles blithely and reaches up with one hand to pat my cheek. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Another time.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a dark promise in her voice, one that makes me shudder.The part of my brain that is still capable of thought wonders if there will truly be another time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene rises and her hands move to press into the mattress, bracketing my shoulders, her dark breasts pressed together between her upper arms.Her slip is drawn tight and thin over her skin, so much so that it is no longer fully opaque.I can see the jutting of her nipples against it, two small peaks that break the clean silhouette of the fabric.She leans down to capture my lips once more.Her hair falls thick and heavy around us, the dark curls brushing my sensitive skin.Her mouth is hot against mine, almost as hot as her slick cunt on my thigh.I try to rut against her, but her leg isn’t positioned in a way that I can meet.I exhale a huff of frustration.My clit throbs between my legs, angry and demanding.I feel so deeply turned on and, simultaneously, entirely unfulfilled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs into my mouth.“Needy, aren’t we?”She pulls back and slides her leg until her knee is against my pussy once more.She presses forward, unrelenting and unyielding, her eyes intent upon my face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that better?” she breathes.She drops her mouth to one of my breasts, licking and sucking her way to the sensitive nub of my nipple.I moan and try to grab for her ass, but it’s too far for me to reach and so I have to settle for one scrabbling for purchase on her shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her brown fingers find a swath of golden scales that has formed down the line of my sternum.She strokes them with the tips of her fingers: first the right way and then, horribly, the wrong.I let out a snarl as her fingers catch, finding me wrong-sided.She stops immediately, surprise written in her face.She looks at me, questioning, her teeth worrying her lower lip.Gently, she smooths the patch of scales back down the correct way, fingers soft against scale and then skin, as her hand continues down further over the divot between my breasts, over my Bond mark, down my stomach and navel, until they reach the curl of my short, thick pubes, coarse and gleaming gold and slick with beaded moisture.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand slides lower still, down the swell of my mons, fingers questing out the sensitive skin that lays against her knee.I inhale sharply.Her fingers move searchingly as they glide against me, down the spread of my labia.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re drenched,” she says, her voice low and smug. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squirm against her, my hips shifting needily.There is an urgency within me that I think must be obvious to her — and it is an urgency that she pointedly ignores.Her movements are slow and deliberate and languid.The pad of her middle finger brushes my clit and heat flares through me.My thighs tense, squeezing around her hand.I release a huff of breath.Allene looks delighted.Her index finger moves to the other side of that bud of nerves, sandwiching it between them, her palm pressing insistently into my mons.I make a stupid whiny sound and flex my hips desperately against her, trying in vain to get her hand to move faster, trying to get that extra bit of friction that I so deeply need.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene looks down upon me, appraising me as one might look over a promising project.Her hand stills and then withdraws.Her knee quickly follows suit.I am left empty and alone, cool air breezing over my cunt, an unwelcome replacement for her warm skin.A sound of frustration starts deep in my throat but leaves my lips as a pathetic sort of whine, high pitched and strung out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blood throbs bright and persistent in my stiff clit and the sensitive skin surrounding it.She moves over me.I can see how lust has enlarged her pupils, smell it in the air around us, and yet she refuses to touch me.The last of the day’s light has all but vanished and the room has grown dark around us.I whine again and try to sit up, to push myself against her body, but her hand moves to my sternum and pushes me back forcefully into the plush mattress.“No,” she repeats firmly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shifts on top of me until she is facing away, the bottom of her brown ass peeking out from under the lacy hem of her slip.My throat goes dry and my hands fly to either side of her ass, now within reach, my fingers sinking into the soft skin there.Allene laughs and sinks down until my face is engulfed.Her skin is hot and slick with wanting, her thighs thick and shiny and wet.I open my mouth and let my tongue quest forward, sliding against her humid skin until I find the spot that makes her shudder and moan.Her pubic hair is cropped close to her skin and it scratches a little against my chin as I try to maneuver for a better angle.My hands fist in the globes of her ass, spreading it apart.I feel within myself an addictive sort of desperation, an urgent heat that leaves my cunt hot and aching.Sun above, I want nothing more than to fuck her within an inch of her life, my cock buried deep into her slick pussy until I bottom out and loose myself within her.Allene has other plans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though I am blinded, my face consumed with her heat and musk, I can feel her weight shift atop me as she leans forward.Her hand is on my pussy again, two fingers pressing into my open lips, palm resting against my mons, as her index and middle finger sandwich my clit again.I moan and flex under her, my voice vibrating into her skin.She presses herself more insistently into my face, engulfing me in her suffocating wet heat, and I let my tongue roam wildly until she shudders again and her thighs tense.I drag my tongue against her clit and move my lips, creating a suction that has her thighs squeezing around my face.I feel a little lightheaded.Her fingers are soft but firm and they build a steady rhythm, moving in a circular motion that leaves me panting into her cunt, a mess of my saliva or her wetness or both dribbling down over my chin and neck as the fire within me rages higher and higher, scorching the ceiling of my capacity for pleasure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hand stills and I release a sharp sound, a violent exclamation of my dissatisfaction as my pleasure is curbed, ebbed away from spilling over the brink.Her breath whispers over my sensitive, wet skin and I’m trembling, overstimulated and engulfed by feeling.I try to move, to rut against her hand, to do anything that will stoke that flame, but she has me pinned.Her hand slides lower still, fingertips brushing against my inner lips, teasing just shy of my open canal.I’d almost forgotten that I have that now.I doubt I’ll soon forget.Allene pushes a finger inside easily, I’m so wet and hot and open, and she quickly adds a second without trouble.Her palm presses firmly against the sensitive spread of my skin, a steady pressure against my clit.She curls her fingers inside me, questing until she brushes that bundle of soft sensitive nerves that connect back to my clit.My muscles contract around her fingers and a faint cry punches its way out of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel vast with desperate wanting and this time when I try to move my hips, to rut into her hand, to seek that pressure, Allene lets me.She eases back on top of me, though her vulva is still slick against my mouth, until I have the room I need to maneuver my hips more readily.I don’t hesitate.I move with a desperate urgency, frantically fucking myself on her hand.My movements are erratic and wild.My voice rises unbidden in my chest.Allene laughs again, hearty and free, and she starts to move her own hips, though far more gently than I do.I lick and suck her clit as best I can, trying to give her suction and failing spectacularly as my mouth falls open to release an unrelenting torrent of low moans and breathy expletives.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene shoves a third finger inside me, this time with no preamble of delicacy, and the feeling is near overwhelming.My hips jolt in her grasp, my cunt aches and clenches around her steady fingers.It feels like there’s a fire lit between my legs — a slick, wet fire, like spilled oil ignited atop water.I don’t know when the trembling began, but I feel when it has me in its clutches, when my pleasure peaks and I am left shaking and weak as my orgasm slams through me.My spine rises off the bed and my legs flex, my toes curling into the open air.It seems to last forever, a deep tingling that stretches impossibly long and leaves me strung out and over sensitive, jolting at every movement within me.I’m left spent and weak and limp and drenched in sweat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene draws her fingers slowly out of me and it’s strange and uncomfortable and good and bad all at once.Her fingers slide over the sensitive, spent bud of my clit.I give a last, exhausted shudder as the last dregs of pleasure drain me completely.Allene raises her hips, shifting off of me and turning about so that she can face me, her thighs pressed together, legs folded, her ass resting on the mattress, her tits pressed into my chest.She leans in and kisses me deeply with no mind for the heady musk that clings to my mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are so fucking beautiful,” she says, her voice low and throaty. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her breathing is heavy and there is a dark fervor in her gaze as it travels over me.I lick my lips.I can’t seem to keep my eyes more than half open.Exhaustion has settled within me, leaden and deeply satisfying.I’ve never felt drained like this before — at least, not from sex.Slowly, so slowly, Allene climbs back on top of me.Her movements are languid and dripping with unabashed purpose.Her slip has slumped in the heat of the night, its straps slid down her shoulders, dragging the neckline down and exposing her heavy breasts.Allene watches as my eyes track their movement, the captivating shift of soft, dark flesh.She grins at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Later,” she says, and I think she means it.“For now…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene’s hand finds mine and grasps me about the wrist.She drags my arm down until it’s sandwiched between my stomach and her mons.Her shorn pubes prickle against my skin as she starts to move, sliding forward until my fingers are engulfed by the soft, pliant warmth of her cunt.My hand and stomach are quickly drenched in her wanting as she fucks my fingers with a lingering passion.Her breath quickens, coming in short, sharp bursts that shudder through her chest, her breasts heaving with every inhalation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” she breathes.Allene’s gaze holds mine, intense and lingering, drinking me in as she rides my hand.Her voice rises.“Fuck,” she hisses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her thighs tremble against my sides and she throws her head back.She shudders and shakes and lets out a prolonged groan of pleasure.She crumbles above me, her body toppling forward until her head comes to rest beside mine, her torso half on top of me, half off, our legs a mingled mess. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck,” she repeats, breathless, and kisses me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand moves to cup the side of my face and she gazes at me, eyes nearly closed, and smiles.I feel something inside my chest quake.Her kisses turn lazy and artless, all lips and no tongue.Her chest heaves wearily against mine.Allene’s lips find the side of my neck and then still there, her head nestled in beside me.I feel the delicate brush of her eyelashes as her eyes fall shut. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few minutes later, she’s dead asleep, her breathing gone soft and slow.I still beneath her, eyes open, all too conscious of the stiffness of the dried and drying sweat on my skin.My heart doesn’t seem to have realized that our sojourn into passionate waters has ended, for it is hammering fervidly within my chest.I feel strange and shaky and weak, like a newborn foal on untried legs.Allene shifts atop me and I can feel the soft slide of her lips as she smiles against my neck.My brain has space for one last thought before I succumb to my exhaustion:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fuck.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Several days later, the convoy from Voswain arrives.Allene has been buzzing with excitement ever since the courier arrived two days prior with news of the caravan’s approach.Wearing my normal guise, I stand back and watch as a line of around ten conspicuously overdecorated carriages pull into the landing behind Pyrehart Palace.A crowd of servants bustles about, seeing to the unloading of both passengers and possessions. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beaming brightly, Allene takes great pleasure in greeting the newly delivered gathering of young Voswainian courtiers.Fidelity and Clemence follow in her wake, like streamers clinging to a kite as it soars excitedly in the breeze.Welcomes made, a small group of servants breaks off from the larger whole and shows those Voswainians of stature to their assorted rooms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene begins to direct the remaining servants, sorting through all her many newly arrived possessions.I lean back against the palace exterior, content to simply watch from a distance.The door by my side opens and I turn to see Caed striding out towards the caravan.He pauses momentarily when he sees me and gives me a nod.Things have been… awkward between us.Truth be told, I haven’t seen much of him in the past week or so.It’s not as if we’re glued at the hip, but we usually make a habit of being in one another’s presence.Or at least, I have made a habit of near always being with Caed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed continues forward, walking briskly to join Allene.Seeing them together stirs something uncomfortable within me.I feel, strangely, as if my heart is a steel ingot that is slowly and painfully being hammered out into sheet metal.It’s not guilt — or at least, I don’t want it to be.I close my eyes and focus on the Bond between us, the thread that ties us together.When I concentrate on Caed, I can feel a low thrum of excitement.It’s not overt — our Bond does not jump with wild eagerness — but it is there all the same. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once my eyes open, I find Caed looking back at me.I fidget in place.There’s no way he can know the source of my inner discomfort.I could feel guilty over any number of things.Beside him, Allene glances over at Caed before her eyes follow the line of his gaze.Seeing me, she straightens and waves, a bright laugh spilling from her lips.Caed jerks his chin up brusquely and I roll my eyes.I heave myself away from the wall and go over to join them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You called,” I say flatly.My insides quake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you rather be alone?” Caed asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t really care,” I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed frowns at that, his eyes lingering on my face for a moment before he turns away.Together, he and Allene instruct the servants in the unloading of Allene’s things.I had thought she brought a lot with her when we had traveled together: I was wrong.I gawk as trunk upon trunk is stacked neatly together until a veritable army of luggage has been assembled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you need with all this?” I ask irritably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it’s not as if they’re all <em>mine,”</em> Allene replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes.“Uh-huh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.Before us, three primary groupings of luggage have formed.Allene gestures to the smallest of these and says, “Those ones aren’t mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ohhhh, I see,” I say with mock understanding.“So just <em>those</em> ones aren’t yours.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” Caed cuts through, his tone reproachful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene doesn’t seem to mind.She just laughs and waves a hand at Caed, calling him off.“It’s fine, Caed,” she says absently.He sighs and settles back on his heels.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, Caed,” I echo snidely.“It’s <em>fine.”</em>I can practically <em>feel</em> him frowning at me in disapproval.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ignoring the both of us, Allene continues.“Anyway, yes, just those ones aren’t mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then what are the other stacks for?” I ask.“What, is this one all books?And the other one is…”I frown thoughtfully.“I don’t know.More books?One, single, very large book broken up into multiple pieces?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.Feeling quite pleased with myself, I lean back and bring my arms up, hands clasped behind my head.Grinning, I glance back at Allene, who is smiling distractedly, half her attention on me, while the other half remains fixed upon the unloading of her possessions.Over her shoulder, I spot Fidelity, who to my surprise is not only staring at me — she’s glaring at me.When my eyes meet hers, she blanches and hurriedly turns away, pulling Clemence off with her.I frown, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.I had forgotten that while Allene knows the truth of Lady Fae’s identity, for better or worse she is the only one who does.Whatever fondness I feel for Fidelity she has in turn only developed for that other version of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you’re not entirely wrong,” Allene replies brightly, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil.“That pile,” she says, gesturing to the largest one.It towers over the other two, dwarfing them in all dimensions.“That pile is for my workroom.”At my questioning look, she continues.“You see, your king and prince have ever so kindly allotted me a workroom of my own, separate from my chambers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know if it was all that kindly,” Caed interjects.“I happen to remember you insisting upon it rather relentlessly during our marital negotiations.”He doesn’t sound annoyed — more than anything, he sounds fond.“We had to clear out an entire tower chamber just to accommodate your requirements.”Allene laughs and shoves him playfully in the shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So then it <em>is</em> mostly books,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, a lot of it, yes,” Allene admits.“But the other pile is more personal effects!You know, clothes and things.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like… also more books.”I bare my teeth at Allene.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She frowns at me before heaving a long, protracted sigh.“Yes, fine, and also a few books.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I throw back my head and cackle in triumph.Allene glances back at me, her face fond.I feel a twinge in my heart and for a moment I mistake it for some sort of — I don’t know — <em>feelings </em>within me.But when I glance back towards Caed, his frown and the twinge connect and I realize that the emotion is his, a note of surprise and uncertainty.His eyes are wide, his narrow lips pursed together, a knot forming between his brows.He looks stricken — almost — as if I’ve blasted him with a gout of icy water.By the time Allene turns to regard the both of us, the expression is gone.Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I make some excuse about having other shit to do and then fuck the fuck off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On my way back to the palace, I cross paths with Daffodil and on instinct I swerve away from them, my heartbeat rising high and panicked in my chest.If they take note of it, they do not stop me to say so.Several minutes later, in the comfort of my rooms, I realize quite belatedly that they have no reason to take issue with me — at least, not the real me.Not the me that looks like this.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After I fell asleep in Allene’s bed, I woke a few hours later and extricated myself from her slumbering embrace with much care and even more cursing.I put myself to rights as best I was able and then I left — and ran directly into Daffodil.It was stupid of me, really, to forget that they would be guarding her door.There was a moment where we both froze, our eyes locked upon each other, time running slower than thick molasses on a cold morning.They didn’t say anything.Eventually, they recovered enough to give me a curt bow.I turned promptly on my heel and fled.I felt their eyes on me down the entire stretch of the hallway.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  
</p><hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes several days for Allene’s luggage to be mostly settled.She’s taken up roost in the topmost room of one of the inner towers, the one closest to her chambers.She has a very specific organizational system — one that, frankly, both dizzies and bores me when I act upon the foolish idea of visiting her new workroom.For her part, Allene gripes somewhat about the excessive amount of stairs that separate her chambers from her new study, but she does so while grinning a bit maniacally as she shelves an armful of books.All in all, she looks very pleased with herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed leans forward and hands something to Allene — a parcel perhaps a foot in length, but narrow in width.It’s wrapped in a thick cloth.I hang back, leaning against the stone wall, a frown pulling at my lips.However much I dislike hearing Allene prattle on about her boring books, I am even less enthused about the prospect of watching her unwrap what must be some sort of soppy token of Caed’s affection (for why else would he bother to deliver something personally to Allene?).When she pulls from the wrappings a long, wicked dagger — that same dagger that once wounded Caed — I understand.With it, there is a note from the king, which Allene reads aloud:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This blade has been crafted by magical means that are outside the understanding of even the most skilled blacksmiths in my employ.We will pursue other avenues of research.In the meantime, the offer of your expertise, should you still wish to extend it, would be greatly appreciated.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene frowns at the note for a moment before setting it down upon her desk.Her grip around the dagger’s handle is tense.She raises it to her face, lifting it so the light streaming through the window illuminates its wicked edge, its dark grip, the large spheral garnet of its pommel.When the light refracts through the stone, it reflects a faint red tinge upon her dark skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” she says, finally setting it down upon her desk.“Well, I’ll get started with that.You both,” she says, gesturing to Caed and myself, her nose wrinkled.“Leave me so I can get to work.I can’t think with either of you around.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scowl back at her.“What about Fidelity and Clemence?” I ask pointedly.I shoot the two women a nasty look, which Clemence returns in spades.I resent both being sent away and being made to seem unhappy at the prospect of leaving Allene’s presence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“They</em> know how to help me do research,” Allene replies.“And they also know that I’ll likely ask them to leave soon anyway.”She waves both her hands towards us irritably.“Now, shoo.Go wave your swords around or whatever it is you do when I’m not with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I begin to protest, but Caed rests a quieting hand upon my shoulder.“I’ll relay your intent to my father,” he says before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Allene’s cheek. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hand still firm upon my shoulder, Caed steers me towards the door and all but drags me out of the tower with him.We nod to Sieglinde as we exit onto the small landing outside the chamber and then continue on down the long, winding stairway.We walk silently, our footsteps echoing against the stonework.I can’t see Caed’s face — only his back, strong, upright, stiff — but I can feel that something is the matter. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You appear to be getting along with Allene,” Caed says finally.He says it carefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frowning at his back, I reply, “Yeah, well… I figured we’re gonna be stuck with her for a while.”I shove my hands into my pockets and turn my head away from Caed’s back to glance out the passing window.It’s a clear day outside.Clouds race across the sky, ferried by an eager breeze.“Seeing as how you seem to like her or whatever.”I wonder absently what Caed saw between us in the tower room — what he’s been feeling from me through our Bond over the past week or so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed doesn’t reply to this and I don’t try to force it.We continue ever downwards, time stretching torturously as awkwardness settles in between us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t seen you much recently.”His voice is quiet, measured.He sounds perfectly calm.It’s almost convincing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well,” I flounder, confused.My heart thuds anxiously in my chest.“You haven’t asked for me.I assumed you didn’t need me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caed stops suddenly before me — so suddenly that I run into him and rebound backwards, stumbling, my hands waving comically in the air as I topple and land gracelessly on the stone stairs.Caed stands still, unmoved.We’re near the base of the tower now.In several feet, the curve of the stairway will straighten and open up onto a wide hallway.I can hear the bustling sounds of human activity nearby.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed..?” I ask uncertainly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His posture is rigid, unforgiving.I watch as his hands slowly clench and unclench, over and over and over.I likely wouldn’t have noticed if my eyes had not been level with his hands.His shoulders rise and fall with a pattern of breathing that is much more elevated than the situation calls for.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I did not realize that I had to ask,” he says stiffly, his voice muffled, as if he’s forcing the words out through gritted teeth.“Or that I needed to — that your proximity was motivated purely by necessity.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Bond between us vibrates impatiently, a staccato <em>tmp tmp tmp</em>, like a racing heart.I gawk at his back, too shocked to stand, my hands planted on the stair on either side of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed…” I breathe.I feel winded, stretched tight.This — this means something.Or at least, I think it does.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I—” he begins, and then freezes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A servant, her arms laden with a tray of small foods, rounds the corner, pausing as she catches sight of us.She bows first to Caed and then to myself (after startling at finding me seated) before continuing up the stairs to Allene’s tower.Caed steps aside to allow her passage and then takes off down the stairs at a brisk pace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand shakily and follow after him until I see him disappear into the king’s chambers.He doesn’t look back at me even once.Bewildered and somewhat upset, I spend the rest of the day performing the motions of normalcy. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t see Caed even once.I wonder if he is avoiding me.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Frustration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is a bit of an odd one. hope y'all enjoy it regardless!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The case of the dagger is an interesting — and ultimately frustrating — one.Upon receiving the blade, my immediate thought is to research means of performing a tracking spell upon it so that I might uncover its origin.There are many such spells and they range in both objective and efficacy.The problem isn’t in finding a tracking spell — it’s in finding the spell that will give me the information I require.And so my efforts begin as all such enquiries do: with a truly daunting amount of research.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before long, my new worktable is piled high with books, all of them pulled from my personal collection.Sunlight streams in through the floor to ceiling window that circles near the entire circumference of the wall, save for the section of wall reserved for the door.Overhead, a long hatch in the ceiling has been propped open to allow fresh air to permeate the room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I first took to the tower room, the effect of the window was quite breathtaking.It looked out over the rest of the palace and the hill beyond, the glass so clear I swore I could step clean through it and out into the air beyond.It’s still impressive — and very beautiful — but the impact has been somewhat diminished by the addition of many bookshelves, some of which block out parts of the window’s grandeur.I tried to focus them towards the side of the room that houses the door, but wasn’t completely successful in this endeavor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We packed the shelves as tightly as we could and still it was quite the squeeze to get it all to fit.Lovely as the tower room is, it’s still somewhat smaller than I am accustomed to, and the window, while nice, is not entirely practical for my needs.Still, I won’t complain.It’s all rather pleasant.I imagine that before being ceded to my needs, this tower chamber made for some sort of stately meeting room or lounge or something similar. It certainly seems outfitted for such use — the furnishings are understated and elegant in a lived in, comfortable sort of way, all dark wood and plush upholstery.This is a room that saw much use before I supplanted the previous occupant. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I had first been gifted the tower room, I asked Caederyn why the wall was made of drachenglas and not the ceiling — surely it would be much more practical that way — and this he answered by triggering a mechanism that caused a small hempen ladder to descend from the hatch overhead.He climbed up without hesitation and then pulled me up behind him into a wide, open space, only closed off to the open air by the thin railing that ran its perimeter.Standing up there was very much like being in the world’s tallest gazebo.The view was even more breathtaking than that within the tower room — the glittering palace spread wide below, the reaching trees as the hill dipped away from view, and the concentric rings of Soliss’ Old Town beyond.It had also been surprisingly <em>cold.</em>When I complained of this to Caederyn, he smiled and told me I’d be grateful for it come summer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Since then, we’ve made some necessary modifications to outfit the tower room for my needs.A desk was custom built to fit the room’s curvature.It boasts two levels and a truly impressive amount of shelving, as well as a panel in the center that can be levered so that it sits at an angle.This is where I sit, cradled in the seat of an almost disgustingly comfortable chair, my journal propped diagonally on the drafting panel, a mess of open reference books sprawled across my desk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity and Clemence sit in plush armchairs opposite my desk.They run through index after index, combing for any content that is even remotely relevant to our search.The books are then placed upon my desk, where I study the selected volumes one by one, my quill scratching dutifully on the page of my journal as I copy down the pertinent information and catalogue it with a title and page number in case my notes fail me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Over the past two days, we have managed to compile spells for locating loved ones via emotional bond, spells for finding people or creatures via various forms of their detritus, spells for communing with or conjuring entities that are capable of tracking scents, spells for retrieving lost items, and spells for pinpointing secret admirers.The last spell came from a book that Fidelity handed over with the utmost reluctance before hastily hiding her face behind the pages of another.Stressed as I am, I can’t even tease her over it.I barely allow myself a brief, stilted laugh before I take the book and note the “relevant” passage.I highly doubt the spell’s effectiveness in <em>any</em> situation, let alone this one.Still, it has been added to my notes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you tried <em>Mercurielle’s Magic Method?” </em>Clemence asks.Even seated in a lavishly comfortable arm chair, she manages to look prim, straight-backed like the line of a conductor’s baton.At the moment I find it somewhat exhausting to look at.Between Fidelity and Clemence sits a low table that is meant to hold the more mundane items of entertaining guests — tea settings, food stuffs, and the like.Currently, it’s covered in stacks upon stacks of books, all jumbled together haphazardly like a neighborhood plagued by unplanned, ramshackle additions.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, my nose wrinkling in distaste.“I’ve been avoiding it since it’s, well…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I retrieve it from the bottom of the stack of books nearest me.My fingers run over its once smooth cover, stuttering as they brush the ugly gash that mars the book board.The wound reaches near a third the way through the book, rending through words and diagrams alike. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We are lucky that books do not hemorrhage text the way humans lose blood,” I muse to myself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Clemence agrees.“Because if they did, we’d have to worry about the ethics of storing potentially sentient beings on shelves for prolonged periods of time.”She’s doing that annoying thing with her voice — the “you’re being very silly right now but I’m putting up with it out of either love or complacency” thing.It’s an exceptionally eldest sibling thing to do and it’s horridly obnoxious when I’m already so frustrated and frazzled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pointedly ignore her and instead open <em>Mercurielle’s Magic Method.</em>Knife wound aside, it’s still mostly serviceable — at least enough so to still be useful to me while I wait for the my new copy to arrive.I flip to the first bookmarked page and skim its contents without enthusiasm.It’s more of the same.With Mercurielle’s formula I could perhaps track the origin of the dagger’s materials (the blade’s metal, the grip’s leather, the deep garnet pommel), but there is nothing I can find for tracing an item’s creator — and seeing as how the previous owner of the knife is dead, finding the creator and hoping they keep record of their sales will have to do.Sourcing the materials will give me a beginning, but likely not a particularly good one. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My best bet will be to find whoever manufactured the individual materials and then chart out their client lists, compare them, and find any common purchasers.This method relies on a number of assumptions: that the craftsmen responsible for the individual components are still alive, that they do indeed keep accurate client lists, and that no parts of the blade have been replaced since its making.Who <em>knows</em> how old the thing is?The grip, in particular, could have been worn away and replaced any number of times.This strategy is likely to not only be tedious, but I fear it may be entirely fruitless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Those not practiced in the arcane arts think tasks such as this to be easy — you wave your hand, speak aloud an ensorcelled recipe, scatter some magically infused powders, draw a diagram, and bam!If only that were the case.Tracing the metal’s origin is as likely to lead me to a mine as it is a smithy.Magic — and magical items in particular — are finicky in this way.What is to be considered a dagger’s conception?Is it the moment of its quenching?The heating and beating of the ore into something useable?The mining of the raw material?The rock’s gestation within the earth’s inscrutable sediment?It’s not as if I was expecting this endeavor to be <em>easy,</em> exactly, but this promises to be nothing short of a long and futile slog.I can already feel the tightness at the back of my eyes as an incipient headache threatens its arrival.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close <em>Mercurielle’s Magic Method</em> with a snap and set it down.Heaving a sigh, I rise to my feet and stretch.I blink forcefully several times until my vision clears from its research induced fog. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going out of my mind.I need a break,” I announce.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, thank the Laws,” Fidelity groans.She shuts her book and sets it aside with an expression of deep pain, as if it had somehow grievously wounded her.She slumps down in her seat and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.“I don’t want to ever read again for the rest of my life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t mean that,” Clemence says calmly.She leans forward and begins to organize the haphazard sprawl of books before her into neat stacks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity’s fingers curl down and she peaks over the edge of them to shoot Clemence a deeply vexed look.“Yes, I do,” she says.“I don’t know how you two manage it.All this nonsense does is give me a headache.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you’re certainly not going to want to join me on my break, then,” I reply, feeling at once both amused and annoyed.It’s the sheer futility of the task I’ve set myself: it has worn my patience thin.All of a sudden, I think I would very much like to be alone.“I was thinking of heading to the royal library to see if, perhaps, our failure lays in cultural oversight.The Nadarans may have a perspective on arcane theory that could prove useful.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Clemence snorts.Nadaran magic is, sadly, somewhat provincial.They rely too heavily upon the favor of dragons and not enough on human ingenuity.I hope, eventually, to remedy that.I would very much like to establish some form of arcane conservatory here in Soliss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity releases a long suffering moan and sinks even deeper into her armchair.She slumps so low that her skirts ride up to her knees, revealing her plain underskirt and stockinged legs.Layers of petticoatsare bunched up around her waist, trapped between her shoulders and the back of her chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t <em>need</em> to accompany me,” I say, perhaps less kindly than I should.Fidelity peers at me from between her fingers, her dark green eyes narrowing as if to size me up.Coming from her soft, round face it looks absolutely ridiculous.I huff a sigh and lean back against my desk.“Sorry.I’m just — this is incredibly frustrating.It’s not your fault I thought myself more capable than those professionals at the king’s disposal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” Clemence says, standing.“It’s not as if Nadara is particularly known for its arcane achievements.It wasn’t a foolish assumption to make.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug.“Anyway, just — go.Go do something fun or just get some rest — or — whatever.I’ll be fine on my own.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity and Clemence exchange glances.It’s a little annoying how they can sometimes be at odds with one another and then immediately become unified in their consideration of me.I scowl at the both of them until Fidelity looks mildly penitent.Clemence just raises one carefully sculpted black eyebrow towards me, her mouth shrunken down to a tight pucker. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Please,” </em>I say emphatically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence nods and immediately bends to drag Fidelity to her feet.Fidelity groans and smooths down her skirts.Together, the two of them exit my workroom.I turn back to my desk and make a halfhearted attempt to organize it before Sir Sieglinde peeks her head in through the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace?” she calls quietly.Judging by her voice, I think either Fidelity or Clemence must have warned her of my mood.Either that, or she is far more perceptive than I assumed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes and silently count to five before I turn and fix my guard with a weary smile.“Yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde hesitates for a moment and then says, “Just — just checking in, Your Grace.Since your ladies left without you.Let — let me know if you have need of my assistance.”The more she talks, the redder her face grows.Her Voswainian is faltering and her accent is atrocious, but some part of me softens at seeing her try at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Sir Sieglinde.I’m just preparing to depart for the library.”She gives me a quick nod and ducks back out of the room.The door shuts quietly behind her.I sigh and close my eyes and let my head fall back.I know I’m steadily descending into colossal bitch territory, but I can’t help it.The beginning phases of research are almost never fun, but this has been particularly excruciating.I give myself another minute to stew in my thoughts before I gather up my notes into a neat stack and head for the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The palace library is beautiful, but limited.It is contained within a single large chamber — large compared to the average room, that is, but it is somewhat depressingly small compared to the library in Whithelm Castle.Pyrehart Palace’s library stretches the full three flights of the palace structure, with a massive rectangular window that runs the length of the room.Below this, there is an open central space where a number of highly polished dark wood desks are arranged in two neat rows upon the tiled floor.Surrounding this atrium are three floors lined with narrow rows of bookshelves.These floors are open to the central space, with intricately carved railings taking the place of walls.Despite this open structure, there is something dark and cramped about the stacks, for though the innermost shelves benefit from the natural light of the chamber’s overhead window, the more remote sections must rely upon lamplight for illumination.It bathes the deeper areas in a warm, flickering glow that I suppose might feel comfortable — cozy, even — to those who grew up here.As for myself, I find it incredibly claustrophobic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sieglinde at my back, I hastily skirt around the front desk to avoid the librarian on duty (a cloyingly sweet older woman who is as long winded as she is wholesome) and dive into the stacks.She follows my trajectory with her tiny, gopher-like eyes and smiles when I pause to wave to her in greeting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t you—” I begin, waving a hand towards Sir Sieglinde, “Go, I don’t know, speak with her or something.I’ll just be off in the stacks.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde nods back, her mouth pulling down at the corners in a dubious arc.Whatever thoughts she has, she doesn’t voice them, which demonstrates an amount of wisdom I would likely appreciate if I had room in my brain to appreciate much of anything at the moment.She breaks away from me as I head towards the far staircase.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Pyrehart Palace library is largely utilitarian.It contains no shortage of maps, from painstakingly hand drawn massive maps the size of my four poster bed that require special storage and handling, to floor length tapestries, to various traveler’s guides, to celestial navigation charts, to personal journals that depict the land as drawn by the author as they documented their adventures (these are often wildly inaccurate, but are nonetheless intriguing).There is an entire section that contains nearly three centuries’ worth of almanacs gathered from Nadara and the surrounding lands.I find no shortage of books on wildlife — bestiaries both magical and mundane, medicinal plant guides, treatise on animal husbandry.Much of the library is dominated by books on engineering and architecture.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I skim through the truly daunting history section, past the memoirs and biographies and war treaties.I pass over cookbooks and instruction manuals and the sad little shelf of fiction, and on to the nearly as depressing section on magic.It’s so disappointingly small that my first time in the library I completely passed it by on accident.I spent hours wandering the stacks, picking up random books and wondering idly if the arcane texts were kept in the back amongst the materials that require special permission for viewing.Eventually, I ceded my pride and asked the librarian for help.Toddling along slowly, she lead me to the third floor, retreating as far from the natural light as possible, back to a dim, cramped corner, all the while prattling on about her herb garden and seven adorable grand children.It was both incredibly charming and exceptionally irritating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The arcane shelf is no better today than it was a week ago.Frankly, my personal collection is both far more impressive and decidedly more useful.There are some very basic beginners’ guides to arcane theory as well as a number of practical spell books: the sort that teach one how to magically remove stubborn stains or to enchant a teacup to keep its contents warm or dissuade a favored piece of clothing from fraying or thinning.It is magic routed in the mundane, magic that aims to ease the pains of day to day life primarily through the enchanting of common household items.The most interesting items — to me — are perhaps the documentations of local folk magics, which at the very least should give me <em>some</em> new perspective to read up on.I quickly single out a couple books of this sort to peruse later.I completely ignore the three books I find on portents and fortune telling and other such superstitious nonsense.Likely the most useful book amongst the bunch is a profoundly outdated copy of a Nadaran translation of <em>Ogladelle’s Definitive Compendium of Profoundly Magical Essences.</em>It appears to have rather suffered in transit.I eye its worn spine and fraying pages and slowly failing adhesive with a sort of fond remorse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heave a sigh.I knew this endeavor was fruitless, but I had held out hope nonetheless.Dejected, I turn away from the offending books and head for the stairs.Halfway there, I halt, caught between temptation and guilt.To my right is the impressively robust section on dragons: everything from phonetic documentation of their language, to genealogies, to historical accounts of draconic deeds, to anatomy books, to personal journals of Bonded dragons that they then allowed to be copied and published.I hover over the shelves, teeth worrying my bottom lip as I skim spine after spine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I really <em>shouldn’t</em> indulge my curiosities — at least, not whilst I’m meant to be researching something else — but it’s not as if these books on folk magic are likely to be at all helpful.What harm could it do to allow myself a temporary distraction? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before I can examine my own motives any further, I hastily grab several interesting looking books and stack them on top of those which I had already selected.It’s an unwieldy burden at best.I jut my chin forward so I can rest it upon the cover of the topmost book and then heave the stack carefully in my arms, making sure that it’s as steady as I can manage before I make briskly for the stairs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time I reach the second floor, my arms are already aching and I find myself regretting sending Sir Sieglinde away.If nothing else, she would make for an excellent pack mule.Sweat prickles along my brow and the back of my neck.I have to step carefully, as my burden obscures a good portion of my vision, making descending the stairs a somewhat daunting endeavor.I’m concentrating so heavily on maintaining the structural integrity of my hoard that I don’t notice that a third figure has joined Sir Sieglinde and the librarian at the front desk until I hear her sardonic voice echoing out over the expanse of the open atrium.Lysithea.I can’t make out what she’s saying, but there’s no mistaking her voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance up and see her lounging languidly, her elbows planted on the surface of the front desk, her chin resting upon her interwoven fingers.As I hesitate, Lysithea glances up and catches sight of me.Her face breaks out into a toothy grin and she waves at me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Need some help, Princess?” she calls out loudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My breath leaves me in rapid, harried little puffs that jostle a wiry strand of hair that’s come loose over my brow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I answer less loudly.“Please.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea saunters over and relieves me of the bulk of my burden.She reaches for the remaining books but I bat her hands away.I don’t wish to have her repeat my folly.Rolling her eyes, she shifts the stack of books in her grasp so that she can get a look at the spines.As she eyes their titles, she pulls a face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh,” she says.“What’s all this for?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heave my remaining books to the side, tucking them under my arm and against my hip.“Well,” I begin somewhat testily.“I thought I should do some, you know… extracurricular research.Seeing as how I’m to call Nadara my new home.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” she replies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea’s mouth has tensed into an unhappy line.As Sir Sieglinde approaches us, Lysithea’s expression relaxes into one of composed apathy.The guard takes my remaining books wordlessly and together we leave the library and head in the direction of my chambers and my workroom — I haven’t yet decided where I’d rather go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How did you know where I would be?” I ask curiously.I feel much freer now without all those burdensome books weighing me down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Clemence,” she answers.“I went to call upon you in your chambers.She told me you’d made for the library.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I “hmmmm” noncommittally and try not to let my bad mood show through.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She also told me not to go since you’d gotten into one of your ‘ill tempers,’ as she put it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not quite your preferred choice of words, then?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.I glance sideways towards Lysithea and find her grinning at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” she replies.“I don’t really mind when you go full bitch.I rather like it, honestly.”Lysithea bats her eyelashes at me and I release a sharp gust of air that could be a laugh or a groan.I don’t know whether to be annoyed or amused, but I suppose that’s a good thing, considering an hour ago I’d definitely have gone for the former.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you <em>do</em> mind my reading material?” I ask, not quite able to let it go.My tone aims for casual and almost completely misses the mark.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea frowns and tilts her head back to gaze up at the ceiling.We walk in silence for several moments before she finally replies.“I just — I don’t like you being here,” she says finally.Her voice is tight.“You know that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m much closer to Laruze now,” I point out.“And, you know, strategically — not that I can promise anything, but having someone sympathetic in a ruling position in Nadara… well, I don’t see how that can be a bad thing for you or your people.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea grunts noncommittally.Her lips are pursed tightly together, like an ill constructed dam trying valiantly to oppilate a zealous flood.Behind me, I hear the faint gust of breath that Sir Sieglinde lets loose.I know the Nadarans and Larish share nothing if not a deeply held enmity towards one another, but, really, who disapproves of <em>peace?</em>Sometimes I find these tensions to be rather childish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Exasperated, I continue.“Even if I <em>wasn’t</em> here, I’d still be interested in this subject.The relationship between the Nadaran royalty and their dragons is <em>fascinating.</em>It’s so… unique.And dragons are so, well, remote.It’s not often for them to interact much with human society.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, Lysithea snorts.“Nadara isn’t the only country with dragons,” she says.We pass by a group of servants going the other direction.They steer to one side of the hallway and bow deferentially, giving us ample room to move freely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course not,” I agree.“But I know of no other place that holds such an agreement between dragons and humans — particularly an agreement that has spanned <em>generations.</em>You have to admit that it’s intriguing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea halts abruptly.I slow and then stop, turning back so that I can look her in the eye.We’re just shy of the juncture where I’d have to decide which direction to take — one way leading to my chambers and the other up to my workroom.Lysithea’s gaze is turned downwards and her expression has grown sour. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not,” she says shortly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown back at her.“It’s <em>not</em> interesting?” I reply, frustration pulling my voice taught like a piano wire.“I know you have your… biases, but this is <em>ridiculous.”</em>My hands land squarely on my hips as I face her down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” she snaps.“That’s not what I meant, Allene.It’s — It’s not unique.”She turns her face from me.“The Nadarans aren’t the only ones who—”She cuts herself off and sucks in a harsh breath.When her gaze meets mine, there is a heaviness there, a look of resentful resignation.“Whatever,” she breathes.“It doesn’t matter anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, as I realize her meaning.My irritation bleeds out of me.I raise a hand and touch her shoulder gently.“Sorry.I forgot — I know Laruze had their own sort of…”I wave my free hand nebulously before me.Lysithea nods, not quite meeting my eyes.“It’s not the same but it was — it <em>is</em> — relevant.I forgot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea pulls away from me.“Yeah,” she says.“It doesn’t really matter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown back at her.“Clearly, it does.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea shrugs and then steps to the side and shoves her books atop Sir Sieglinde’s stack.The guard gives a start, but despite her surprise she manages the added encumbrance easily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think Clemence was right,” Lysithea says.“I think you need some time alone right now.”I begin to argue, but she cuts me off.“I think I need some alone time, too.”She shoots me a lopsided grin that’s no more than a shadow of her usual gallantry before she turns on her heel and heads off down the hallway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck,” I breathe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes and just stand there for a moment, forcing myself to feel my heartbeat and my anger and my guilt.My hands clench and unclench several times.When at last I open my eyes, I find Sir Sieglinde looking at me.Her face is open and empty of reproach.She looks worried more than anything else.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where, uhm, where would you like to go, Your Grace?” she asks hesitantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh and turn towards the stairway.“My workroom, I think.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t think I can stand to be around Fidelity and Clemence just yet.We ascend the stairs in silence.When I take to my tower workroom, I leave Sir Sieglinde to stand guard outside the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As ill advised as diverting my attention may be, secretly I have to admit I find it fun.There’s no better remedy to a day spent wading through fruitless research than doing other, more fun research.It turns out that a distraction is just what I need to lift my mood.I begin with a biography of the First of the Bond: Solene and her dragon Koel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It tells the tale of a young orphan girl born of the blood of the valley.She rose from the rabble and through her cunning and wit single-handedly brokered a truce with a nearby community of dragons, thus earning their respect and love, resulting in a Bond that stood the test of generations.The story is told with effusively flowery language and paints its subjects in a reverent palette.As far as the author is concerned, Solene and her partner could do no wrong.Together they “liberated” the disparate peoples from the subjugation of their many lords and began the unification of the fiefdoms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I quickly write this book off as propaganda and move on to <em>Blood of a People, </em>a historical account that claims to document the complete record of Nadaran-dragon relations.Despite the evocative title, it is dreadfully dry and the illustrations are off-putting in that way that only archaic drawings can be.This book begins some time before the First Bonding.It describes a time of great turbulence, a sprawling, wild land torn by war and ravished by fever.As more human settlers arrived from overseas, they brought with them chaos, sickness, and destruction.Unable to distinguish between sentient creatures and ravenous monsters, they warred against the native wildlife. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are multiple theories given here as to Solene’s origins.It is posited that she may have arrived the lone survivor of shipwreck begat by an unnatural storm.Other records claim that she emerged from the hollow homes of a ghost town, hale and healthy in a nest woven by the fever stricken corpses of her fellows.Perhaps least likely is the notion that she was a human born of dragons, sired by their leader and then abandoned in shame to be raised by humans. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The text gives none of these claims credence and instead posits that Solene was likely an expatriate from overseas, a young noble woman sent to Tir Lua in shame or retribution.Here, she made use of her financial resources and her education and began to broker treaties amongst small communities, both human and not.When faced with an army of magical beings she neither wished to fight nor surrender to, it was her brilliant idea to seek out the dragons, who until that point had remained remote and uninvolved.She Bonded her blood to theirs and in trade offered them a land of their own.Once peace was brokered across Nadara, together Solene and Koel cleaved the land in twain, thus creating the island of Domani.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s an interesting theory and it seems semi-plausible — at least, compared to many of the other ones — but I’m not certain I’m entirely convinced.It seems too singular a narrative.Real war — real change — is messy and driven by many acting forces.I flip through the rest of the book before setting it aside and turning instead to other texts to seek out differing theories.I find that there are many and they are, all of them, woefully inconsistent.In the end, I decide it doesn’t largely matter.Whoever she truly was, Solene is long dead.I suppose, perhaps, that Koel is likely still alive.I wonder if he returned to Domina after his Bonded’s death.I wonder, too, if anyone ever sought him out to seek the truth, to set the record straight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I eventually return to <em>Blood of a People</em> and skim the rest of it absently.There are some interesting — and, frankly, far more believable — records once I get past Nadara’s founding.There are chronicles of every generation of Nadaran ruler and their Bonded dragon, including a limited genealogy.It seems it is not uncommon for certain dragon lineages to double dip in the Bonding pool — that is to say that I find that a not insubstantial number of the recorded Bonded dragons are progeny of previously Bonded dragons.This lineage is tracked by title.For instance, Yuen, Voice of the Sun, companion to Rynnwald, the Righteous Sun, was begat by Venna, Voice of Brilliance, companion to Anberelle, the Beloved Brilliance.What I had always assumed to be a title seems to, in fact, be the dragon equivalent of a family name.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I trail a finger up the genealogy and search for any dragons that might be related to Feon, Hand of the Sun, but find none others bearing the “Hand” name.What I find, instead, is another name written between Feon’s and Yuen’s: Laen, Voice of the Sun.Where there should be an accompanying ruler’s name, there is only “deceased, rest his vernal soul.”I flip to the appendix at the back of the book to find more references to Laen.There is only one other: a brief mention at the head of the chapter covering the Battle of Ash.It cites Laen’s kidnapping and subsequent death at the hands of the Larish as the inciting incident for the resulting turmoil.This gives me pause.I read on to see if further theories are posited, as was done with Solene’s origin, but there is none.I’d always thought the Battle of Ash to be no more than a simple territorial dispute.Nadara and Laruze have long sought claim over the valley and it has changed flags many times.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I continue to skim.As I thumb through the pages, I realize that certain sections are more aged than others.I lay the book down upon my desk so that it opens flat.When I look closely, I can see that the book has been section sewn and that those pages furthest towards the end of the book are relatively new and not yet yellowed by time.The illustrations change as well — those placed later in the book grow progressively more modern and less disquieting.I flip to the newest section, where I find mention of Feon and Caederyn, as well as some of the more recent exploits of King Rynnwald.It documents several attempted assassinations against Caederyn as well as that night a dozen or so years ago when we foolishly thought to attend a fae party.There is not yet much else.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frowning, I return to the previous pages and skim through their contents for more deeds by Bonded pairs.There’s much there — more than I had expected.The damming of the Glut by Koel himself, his dragon fire used to forge an inviolable structure to keep the river’s waters at bay.The gift of Venna’s scales and blood to be used in the creation of an antidote for the Gasping Plague, which ravaged lives all across the continent.(This account is one with which I am familiar from my own schooling, for the serum was formulated by Voswainian arcanists.)The decisive slaughtering of the Roaming Death, who came to Nadara to despoil her land and peoples, leaving naught but carnage in their wake until the proud Queen Waldresta and her dragon Hael rallied against them, tearing through their numbers with fire and steel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On and on I read, and soon my head is filled with it, with the history of a land shaped as much by hand as it was by claw.It paints a vivid picture of a people entwined intimately with their draconic allies.So much of Nadaran history has been molded by this Bond.It’s fascinating.I wonder how Caederyn and Feon will carry forward this tradition — and I wonder, too, if I will have a hand in their history.Though the Bonded rulers’ partners are rarely mentioned, I’d like to think that I will be.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t realize that I’ve managed to read the day away until Sir Sieglinde pops her head back through the door and says: “Your Grace… my shift is nearing its end.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I reply.I turn away from my desk to blink up at her owlishly.“Right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde shifts awkwardly in place and then continues, “Would you — do you need anything, Your Grace?Hazley should be here soon and I could…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.”The day has grown late and now the light that fills my workroom is no longer the eager brilliance of day, but the slowly encroaching golden glow of sundown.“Send someone up to light the tower.”Sir Sieglinde nods quickly.She hesitates near the door, seeming unable to make up her mind about something.“Is there anything else?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s just — you haven’t eaten all day, Your Grace.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh… I hadn’t noticed.”Now that she has pointed it out, I can feel the deep ache of unattended hunger in my gut.“Have someone send dinner up, too, please.”Sir Sieglinde nods and ducks back out of the room.I lean back in my chair and let my eyes fall shut.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When next they open, I find myself sour-mouthed and slumped low in my chair.I must have dozed off.I rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands.The sun has almost fully set.Glancing out the window, I can see the drachenglas roof of the ballroom below.It blazes with the sun’s reflected light, refracting gold and red and orange out across the palace walls.It’s nearly blinding.The air is hazy and warm.Even the faint breeze from the open hatch is not enough to dissipate the lazy heat.A persistent <em>tap tap tap</em> sounds at the door and I realize that this is likely what awakened me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come in,” I call groggily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two servants enter.One waits for permission before clearing off a portion of my desk and setting it for dinner.The other begins the process of activating the tower’s drachenglas window so that it releases its stored light within.I’ll have to get them to show me the trick of it later.I keep forgetting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend the remainder of the evening quietly.I thumb absentmindedly through the rest of my gathered bounty.They are none of them near as informative as <em>Blood of a People,</em> though they are perhaps more engagingly written.To my dismay, I seem to have accidentally picked up a book of <em>poetry</em> as well.It is, at the very least, poetry that was written by a Bonded dragon, but after a quick perusal of the contents I judge that that, unfortunately, does no favors for the quality of its contents. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The only section of interest is a segment of the book that is filled with the most awkwardly prolix, poorly camouflaged and horrendously filthy poetry I have ever laid my eyes upon.It is, frankly, embarrassing to read — even in complete solitude.I wrinkle my nose in dismay and hastily shift that book to the bottom of the pile and quietly pray to sear the memory of its contents from my mind.Ugh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I eventually abandon my effort to switch reading material and return to <em>Blood of a People.</em>I take it with me to one of the low, deep armchairs on the other side of my workroom.At some point, a servant enters and lays out a bottle of wine and a glass beside me.I don’t know who ordered this be done, Sir Sieglinde or Hazley or another, but I appreciate it nonetheless.Wine and a — well, it’s not necessarily a <em>good</em> book, but it is an interesting one — regardless, wine and an <em>interesting</em> book go a long way towards soothing my temper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time I’ve made it to the midpoint, I’m feeling loose limbed and pleasantly buzzed.Surrounded by the light of the drachenglas, it feels as if it could be noon, but when I glance at the old (and grandly hideous) clock on the wall, it reads just past midnight.I cork the wine and stand with a sigh.As sorely tempted as I am to take it with me, I leave the book at my desk.My intention is to sleep — not to stay up all night reading in bed.When I exit the workroom, Hazley is outside waiting for me.They give a curt bow.I watch as their blunt cut hair jostles with the motion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you finished for the night, Your Grace?” they ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I reply.“I might as well follow the pretense that I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hazley nods and begins to lead me down the winding stairway.They’re very… professional.I’ve tried several times to engage them in conversation, but they always answer me as shortly and politely as possible.I don’t think they dislike me, per se, but they have made it abundantly clear that they do not wish to foster a more amiable connection with me.I find I don’t particularly like it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the foot of the stairs, we encounter Feon heading cross paths with us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, startled.I smile.“Good evening, Feon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stops mid-stride and then shifts back, placing his weight heavily on his heels.His face colors slightly.“‘Evening,” he replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s very late,” I say conversationally.I approach him with care.He eyes me with something nearing suspicion.He fidgets in place.My smile widens and turns wicked.Apparently I make him <em>nervous </em>now<em>.</em>“What are you up to at this hour?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shrugs his shoulders awkwardly.“I was just heading to bed,” he replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So was I.”I reach forward and tug at one of the golden curls over his brow.“You know,” I begin, careful to keep my tone casual.“Speaking of that matter from earlier — there is still much to be researched.”I turn the lock of hair over in my fingers and then release it.“I’m looking into other things currently — but I’d very much like to have your assistance later, if you’d grant it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon frowns back at me, his lips pulled up in a moue that approaches displeasure.I don’t quite buy it.“Yeah,” he answers after a long hesitation.“Fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll seek you out later, then,” I reply and pat him lightly on the shoulder.“Good night, Feon.”Without waiting for his response, I pass him by and continue down the hall towards my chambers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halfway down the hallway, I hear him answer: “Goodnight…”His voice is small, soft.I think I would have missed it, had it not been so late and the hallway had not been so quiet.Hazley falls into step beside me and accompanies me to my door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight, Your Grace,” they say with a bow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight, Hazley,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My chambers are dark, a single hand lamp left to burn low in anticipation of my arrival.I take it and head for bed, too tired to do much more than undress and fall into the sheets.Clemence and Fidelity are nowhere to be seen.I imagine they are already asleep in the next room.I feel restless: at once exhausted and energized.I’m tempted to return to my feet, to seek out Feon or Caederyn, or to read a book from my chambers, to resume my research.My fingers twitch idly at my sides. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn is most likely asleep, so that option is out.I could go seeking Feon — but no, I think it would be best to let him simmer.He seems like the sort who is profoundly uncomfortable with the prospect of <em>not</em> rushing headfirst into every new thing and I find it quite amusing to see him put off his paces.As for my extracurricular research — I left it in my workroom for this very reason, so that I would not be tempted to carry on with it until the early hours of the morning.There is so much to be done, so much to be learned, and I feel fiercely inadequate in the face of it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Discovery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, lovely readers!  i think i can finally say semi-confidently that with this chapter, we are truly at the halfway point of this book. probably. some of you might have some inkling of where things are headed, i'm not sure! guess we'll all have to find out. 😘</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know how long I spend in bed talking myself out of getting up and searching my shelves for a good book, I only know that eventually I rouse to the cruel kiss of sunlight on my face.I let out a low groan and turn over and stuff my face into the pillow.I don’t feel at all rested.I squeeze my eyes shut and try desperately to let sleep’s embrace recapture me, but once I’m awake, that’s it.I’m not the sort who’s able to sleep in at will. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With some very choice words, I sit up and pivot so my feet fall to the floor.To the side of my bed, one of the curtains has been thrown wide.This, then, was the cause of the sun’s offensively garish glare.I have no proof, but I suspect this was Clemence’s doing.She is a loyal friend, but occasionally a bitterly petty one as well.I’m certain she’s justified it by telling Fidelity it’s for my own good.The worst part is, she’s likely right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As weary as I feel, I think it must be later in the day than I would normally arise.This notion is confirmed when I go through my morning ablutions alone, Fidelity and Clemence seemingly already having prepared for the day.I’ve yet to encounter them.The notion is further corroborated when I catch sight of the clock.Fuck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull a dressing gown over my undergarments and poke my head out my bedroom door and into my parlor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good morning, Sleepyhead,” calls a sardonic voice.It’s Clemence.She’s seated on the settee opposite my door, positioned perfectly to keep it within her sight at all times.“Did you have any important revelations last night?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I huff out a breath and stride across the room to throw myself down on top of the couch opposite Clemence.“No,” I groan.“I gave up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What did you do for the rest of the night?” Fidelity asks.She is perched on the edge of an armchair, her gaze focused on the embroidery hoop clutched in her hands.She looks my way and offers me a small smile.“How did it go?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say.“It was rather awful, truth be told.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity stabs her needle through the fabric and directly into the pad of her thumb.“Son of a bee sting!” she mutters and brings the offended appendage to her mouth to suck out the blood.I let my head fall back into the cushions as a small laugh bubbles out of me.Fidelity eyes me narrowly and proceeds to shake out her offended hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.“Nothing,” I reply.“I’m just very fond of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, what happened?” Clemence asks.Contrary to the conveniently distractible Fidelity, Clemence is like a hound on a scent: relentlessly focused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I didn’t find anything, for starters,” I reply.I sigh and let myself recline fully, spread out long ways on the couch.“The library’s magic section was just as depressing as I remembered.I took a couple folk magic books, but…”I wrinkle my nose and wave a hand dismissively.“Anyway, I decided I needed a distraction, so I also borrowed some books on dragons.”I see Clemence’s pointed expression and roll my eyes.“I know, I know.Anyway, I ran into Lysithea and, well—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It didn’t go well?” Clemence prompts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grimace.“You could say that.You might also say that I wandered ass first, pants down into Woefully Repugnant Bitch territory.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm,” she says impassively.Fidelity looses a loud snort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She got — snippy — about the dragon stuff,” I continue, my voice going tight with annoyance and shame.“I may have, you know, forgotten her whole, well—“I raise my hand in the air above me and gesture nebulously.“The Larish… <em>situation.”</em>I annunciate the last word carefully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity frowns down at me in confusion.“The what now?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know…” I say meaningfully.“With their… <em>faith,</em> and—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ohhhhhh,” Fidelity says loudly, her expression clearing.“Oof.”She cringes sympathetically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly…”I exhale a long breath and pick up one of the couch cushions and hold it over my face so I can scream quietly into it.When I resurface, both Fidelity and Clemence are looking at me intently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity leans forward and pats me comfortingly on the shoulder.“She’ll forgive you.Once you apologize.”I nod and hug the pillow to my chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Clemence says.“But you may want to give her some time.”Fidelity nods along.“Regardless, earlier a servant came calling on Prince Caederyn’s behalf.He wanted to ask if you would take lunch with him.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What did you say?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I told him it would please you to do so.I apologize if I assumed incorrectly.”Clemence doesn’t sound sorry — but, then, I suspect that she is very confident in her answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, of course not.How long do I have until—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not very,” Fidelity pipes in anxiously.“Perhaps just over half an hour or so now…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bolt upright and rush to my feet.“Oh, hell!Why didn’t you say so earlier!”Fidelity opens her mouth to respond, but I cut her off.“You know what, nevermind, I don’t have time for this!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hasten through a brief washing up before Fidelity and Clemence help me to get clothed.There’s only time to give my face a perfunctory once over with a small amount of kohl for my eyes and a faint touch of rouge to my cheeks and lips before I slip on a simple wrap dress over a single petticoat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On my way out the door, I hesitate and turn back to face my friends.“After lunch, I’ll likely return to the workroom.”They look back at me expectantly.“Neither of you need to accompany me, and frankly I worry I’ll make an ass of myself once again if you do.But you are welcome to join me, if you’d like.”Then I’m out the door, startling Sir Sieglinde from her station beside it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You made it!” she exclaims, sounding both pleased and surprised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I reply.“Barely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde’s big, kind face breaks out into a wide smile.“He would have waited.I know he’ll be happy to see you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s right.When I enter Caederyn’s parlor, he rises to his feet and greets me warmly.He leads me to a small table by a window.It seats only two and has been set for lunch.To either side of the table, several trays are laden with multiple small courses of lunch foods.Ever the gentleman, Caederyn helps me into my seat before assuming his own.Jasper hovers anxiously at his elbow for several minutes, filling glasses and serving our food, before Caederyn dismisses him with a smile, leaving the two of us alone.We chat idly about many things: the weather, the upcoming tournament, our new guards, my ladies’ luncheons.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should schedule another, I know.”Today’s lunch includes a tender, flaky white fish cooked in a lemon sauce.It surrenders readily to the touch of my fork.“But truth be told, I’d rather spend that time in my workroom,” I confess.“My eagerness in arranging them was — well, it’s not to say that I haven’t been enjoying my time here, but I needed <em>something</em> to do while you were, you know…”I raise my free hand and wave it between us for emphasis as I take a bite of fish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is good for you to settle into court life here,” Caederyn replies evenly.“Before you assume more formal duties.”He punctuates his words with a sip of tea.“But I think — forgive me if I am wrong here — I think as much as you enjoy socializing, it is not often fulfilling in the same manner or to the same extent that your studies are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I agree, “You’re right.”Caederyn smiles at me.I lean forward and squeeze his knee under the table before straightening.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a small pause, he asks: “How are you faring?With the dagger?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I chew thoughtfully on a mouthful of salad greens and follow it up with a sip of tea.“Not well,” I admit.I think it was inevitable that the conversation would turn towards this and I was not looking forward to it.“I haven’t found much that is terribly relevant to our cause and what I <em>have</em> found promises to be incredibly time consuming and likely completely pointless.”I let my eyes fall shut and rest my fork on my plate.Just thinking about it is exhausting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve only been at it for a couple days,” Caederyn says consolingly.“I’m certain it will get better.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.“I don’t think so.It’s…”My face scrunches up in distaste.“It’s very complicated.And also deeply annoying.Like, even if I discover the origins of the blade’s materials, the magic is equally likely to bring me to the craftsman who made the blade as it is the mountain that birthed the ore or the bones of the cow whose hide became the leather grip.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s brow furrows in sympathy.“Oh,” he says.“That sounds…”His words trail off and his mouth falls into a frown, the sort that pinches at his lips and brow.It’s rather sweet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We eat in silence for a minute or so before he pipes up again.“Have you attempted that — <em>method,”</em> he begins, hesitating on the word.I think that, uncertain of the precise terminology, he decided to choose imprecision over error.It’s rather cute.“Whatever it was you did with Feon’s tunic?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply.My voice goes sullen.I can tell Caederyn hears it, for his frown deepens.I sigh and pick at my fish.“I <em>should,”</em> I continue.“And I mean to do it, or something similar — today, I hope.I’ve just been — avoiding it.It’s silly, I know.And I know that uncovering the blade’s nature will likely help me deduce its origin.”I exhale a heavy breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s frown turns sympathetic.“I don’t think you’re being silly,” he says.His voice is soft at the edges, tender and careful.“I understand.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without realizing it, I find myself smiling at him.We lapse into companionable silence.Every now and then I steal a glance his way and I can tell he is doing the same.My thoughts wander from his face, to my research, to last night’s reading.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” I exclaim.“I just remembered that I had wanted to ask you something!”Caederyn looks at me inquiringly and beckons for me to continue.“After I got too frustrated to continue with my research, I decided to do some… extracurricular reading.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pause and shift uncomfortably in my seat.I don’t feel <em>guilty</em> exactly, but I’m not relishing the feeling of admitting to him that I took time away from more important matters to sate my frustrations.But Caederyn doesn’t interject — neither to admonish me nor to pardon me — so I continue.“I skimmed through <em>Blood of a People.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Caederyn stiffens and he releases an involuntary huff of irritation.My head quirks questioningly.I raise a brow.Caederyn’s cheeks turn vaguely pink.“I hate that book,” he admits quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.“Is it — inaccurate, or—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he cuts in.“No, it’s not that.”He sucks in a breath and holds it.His shoulders tense.I watch the subtle shifting in his face, the stress of his rigid jaw, the workings of his throat, as he mulls over his thoughts.After a long moment, he releases the held breath.And then he speaks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s… a lot to live up to,” he says finally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The book isn’t — it’s just a record,” I say, aiming for consoling.Judging by his closed off expression, I have completely missed the mark.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They update it every few years, you know,” he says.I nod.“But there hasn’t been much need to update it during my life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, we <em>are</em> rather young,” I reason.I reach forward to take his hand where it rests upon the table.I find it stiff and unrelenting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m twenty-six,” he replies.“By the time Father was my age, he’d slain a golem the size of a mountain.He’d not only defeated the vicious cinderwulf — he managed to subdue and capture it.He—“Here, Caederyn pauses, and his face goes redder still.“The last one isn’t important,” he says, his voice drained of both heat and volume.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The mermaids, right?” I ask.He blanches.“Caederyn, I <em>just</em> read the book last night and I don’t think those mermaids were the beginning or the end of your father’s eclectic dalliances.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn bristles.“My father—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t mean that with any sort of judgement,<em>”</em> I interrupt.“Anyway — that isn’t anywhere near the point.I know your legacy is lengthy and — colorful.Well, so is mine.And let me tell you: great deeds are most often recorded in times of strife and turbulence.The things that keep peace whole and hale — they’re boring.They’re treaties and negotiations and the distribution of food and supplies; they’re roads and bridges and education and months and <em>years</em> spent hammering out legislation so that it serves the people in principal and not just in theory.Peace and happiness aren’t made in single moments of heroism.They’re the culmination of continual effort.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stares back at me, his eyes wide and his lips puckered tightly.Slowly, painfully slowly, he deflates.“You’re right, of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squeeze his hand before withdrawing mine.“You don’t have to sound so sad about it,” I say, teasing gently.“I may be a third child, but I, too, have a legacy.I might understand your concerns more than you expect.”I lean over and pick out a gingersnap from a small plate on the tray to my left and dunk it into my tea.“Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to ask you about.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn releases a sharp breath that’s somewhere between a stilted laugh and a sigh.“Go on,” he says, torn between apprehension and amusement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There was a brief mention of a dragon — Laen?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s brow knits together at the center.“Yes,” he replies.He says it on an exhale, like the last sigh of an old building as it sinks into its crumbling foundation.He seems to understand the direction of my inquiry, for he adds:“He was meant to be my Bonded.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He — what.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn sighs and leans forward on his elbow, the pads of his index and middle fingers pressing into the ridge of his brow.“Venna — his mother — she was flying back to Domina to roost, but Laen came early.She had to touch down near Cindwick.It was Larish territory at the time and…”He exhales heavily and leans back in his chair, face turned, his gaze cast off to the side.“He was dead before he could hatch.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, emotion flooding my voice.“Caederyn, I’m so sorry…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shrugs.“It’s—” he begins, his voice tight.He halts and seems to take a moment to compose himself.When he continues, his tone is level.“It was a national tragedy.I was just a baby, so I don’t — I don’t remember anything.Father never speaks of it unless he must.And, now, well… I have Feon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you and Feon ever talked about it, or…”My words fade to silence, a tide ebbing away from the shore.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A little,” Caederyn replies.“When we learned of it, he was — upset.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And later?” I ask.Caederyn shakes his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our meal subsides into melancholy.When lunch is complete, we stand, and I pull Caederyn into a tight embrace.“I’m sorry for souring our time together.And I appreciate you telling me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we part, Caederyn is smiling, just barely.“I know better than to try to keep things from you.”He replies in that way that is just so him: torn between sincerity and failed levity.“I imagine you’d learn of it one way or another and I’d rather you did so from me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squeeze his hand.“You’re not wrong,” I say, more charmed than I am chastised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t mind it,” he replies hastily.His deep brown eyes are intent upon mine.He’s searching, I think — searching for something within me, though I’m not sure what.“I… I like how you are.”His face goes a bit pink but his gaze remains steady.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I raise my free hand to cup his cheek.“I like how you are too,” I reply.A soft smile pulls at my lips — the sort of smile that emerges without effort, that refuses to be withheld.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well… Back to work for me,” I murmur.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nods.“For both of us.”He leans in and presses a whisper of a kiss to my cheek.I turn my face and kiss him on the lips.I leave for my workroom.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As per Caederyn’s recommendation, I spend my day preparing and performing a number of identification rituals — first, the basics.I hold the blade in hand and read aloud several lists of common magical activation words in a multitude of languages.None of them bare any fruit, not even the few words in Daenian I feel I have managed to pronounce reasonably competently, but I don’t allow this to dissuade me.I knew this was a long shot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Next is the testing of elements.I plunge the blade through open flame, through distilled water, through ice and earth and sand and clay.I even send for a servant to bring me a length of wool and some glass and I spend the better part of an hour carefully shocking the dagger’s blade with built up static.These practices do not yield any usable results, though I hadn’t really expected them to.If the blade bore such an obvious elemental influence, I likely would have felt some indication of it during a more general identification spell.Still, I want to be thorough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I strike the blade with a selection of long, perfectly cylindrical rods from my collection: glass and steel and lead and iron and brass and zinc.The metal reverberates.I listen to the sounds yielded and take note of them: of the quality, pitch, tone, and duration.At my behest, Sir Sieglinde wields the blade while repeating the magical activation words I attempted earlier.Her Glennish accent is impeccable, but her Voswainian is adorably inept and her attempt at Daenian is even worse than mine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Down the center of the blade I carefully dribble a line of oil that is made by distilling the secretions of salamanders.I light the end of a long, dry stick of pine and use that to ignite the oil before quickly dowsing the wood.The oil burns away and I take note of this, too: of the flame’s height and color and heat and movement and smell and duration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scatter trilling powder over the dagger in its entirety and then hum the appropriate intervals.As my lips press together tightly against my teeth, they buzz with the sound, and the powder echoes it.The blade’s edges soften and blur as it vibrates in place — and as it does so, the powder shifts, and finally I see some real results.Though the trilling powder is agitated along the blade’s entirety, it has been most displaced around the dagger’s red-black pommel.My voice grows thin and weak and my chest and throat tighten with lack of air.I persist as long as I am able: watching the patterns in the powder as the vibration disturbs its rest, sustaining my final note until my chest is burning and my throat feels flattened, compressed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I gasp, my mouth gaping wide to suck in air, my eyes streaming.I lurch forward and just barely manage to avoid knocking into my desk, where rests the blade.Chest heaving, I sink down into my chair and just breathe for a solid minute.Then I grab my quill and my journal and begin to furiously take notes, locking everything in my brain as best I am able so that I forget nothing.I draw a quick diagram of the blade and replicate as best I can the pattern of the powder’s disturbance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Trilling powder is a magically reactive substance.It was, for a long time, thought to be largely useless — until it was discovered that under the right conditions, it would vibrate, and would do so more strongly the more potent the magic around it.What this test indicates is that the bulk of the dagger’s magic lays not in the blade itself — but rather in the pommel.I carefully clean away the powder with a special cloth, which is then sealed in an air tight container.Many an absent mage has forgotten to clean away their trilling powder and found themselves the victim of accidental, self inflicted arson.I set the blade off to one side and surround myself with books. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling newly rejuvenated by my discovery, I return to my studies with zeal.I reread my notes and then begin the long process of reading through my many texts in search of relevant information.Now that I have <em>something, </em>it’s not such a slog.It is certainly still a monumental task, but hope can do much to shift one’s perspective.I attack my reference materials with abandon, jotting down notes with one hand while the index finger of my other skims the relevant lines of text in my books.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the day approaches its end, my tower fills once again with that golden light, and with it comes warmth.Even with the breeze from the open hatch, sundown brings with it a warm, hazy heat.I lean heavily on my elbow, my hand pressing hard into my cheek, as I copy down another line of text.My handwriting becomes loose and lazy.My eyelids grow heavy.My head bows forward over my journal.I just barely manage to snap myself back upright before my head hits the page.A sharp gasp punches out of me.That would have been awful if I’d fallen asleep just then — my cheek pressed to the page, drying ink sinking into my skin.What a relief I managed to catch myself just in time!I congratulate myself and go back to my research.I yawn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I awaken, it is dark out and my limbs feel heavy.I rouse slowly.As I try to sit up, my face sticks to the page.I groan internally and wipe at the drool at the corner of my mouth.No one has come to activate the drachenglas, leaving my workroom in darkness.I wonder if Sir Sieglinde (or Hazley?) assumed that I had figured it out — or that entering the room would disturb me.Either way, I appreciate their confidence — or consideration. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, it is <em>very</em> dark — even the pale moonlight is barely enough to guide my hands around the towering piles of books on my desk.I feel around carefully, very cognizant of the sharp blade that lays <em>somewhere</em> amongst all those books.After a minute or so of searching, I find my target: a small, glasslike bauble near as wide as my thumb is long.I cup it in my hands and blow on it and then begin rubbing it between my palms.After a minute or so of this, it flickers to life, emanating a soft, cool blue light.With this as my guide, I stand and make for the drachenglas window.I know there is some mechanism to it — Caederyn mentioned it briefly once — but I haven’t yet been in the mood to examine it properly.Well, no time like the present.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I walk to the section of wall nearest the door where the window ends.Here, there is a small metal box built into the wall.I can’t see a means to open it, so I feel along its surface and to the edge, where my fingers find a near invisible seam.I fiddle with it for a couple minutes before, purely by accident, I press against the plate with more pressure than intended.There comes a small click and I feel something catch.When I carefully remove my fingers, the cover follows.I set it aside and begin to inspect the inside of the box.There is something in there — something shiny and, I think, metallic judging by the way it reflects my light — as well as a series of tiny, neatly coiled wires, arranged with some sort of intent I can’t discern in the dismal lighting. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean in to study it further and as I do so, my light stutters in the fingers of my left hand.I halt and glance down at it.The light holds.I look back to the metal box.The light vanishes.I let out a quiet curse and straighten up.I breathe more hot air over the bauble and rub it impatiently between my palms.It flickers to life several times, it holds — and then goes out again, throwing me into near total darkness.I groan and shuffle carefully back over to my desk and start to feel around for another angler’s bauble or something to charge the current one with.Something sharp slices into the tip of my finger and I jolt back instinctively.When I bring my finger to my mouth, I taste blood, salty and bright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m about to give up — to turn heel and make my way cautiously to the door — but I halt suddenly.There, in the darkness, somewhere before me is a tiny pinprick of something else — a faint silver glow.I lean in slowly.When I look closer, I can just barely make out the dagger where the moon’s weak light kisses its vile edge.I see that the faint glow is a marking — some sort of symbol inscribed on the blade just below the cross guard.My fingers find the hilt and circle it.I raise the dagger towards the window and watch as the mark disappears, blending in as the rest of the metal reflects the pale moonlight.I lower the blade back into darkness and find it again: that faintest, barest mark.Running my finger over the spot, I feel nothing — no delineation in the surface, no hint that there is anything there to be found.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With the utmost care, I locate my journal.I flip to an empty page and wet my quill.In the dark, I copy the symbol over and over until the page is filled.It’s near impossible to see in this light while still keeping the blade in darkness and within line of sight.My face is so close to the page that I can smell sweet anise pungency of the wet ink.My eyes struggle in the lack of light, and by the time I’m satisfied with my reproduction, they burn with the strain of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And through it all, I am silently thrilled.My blood sings with it.My mind is racing.It takes me several attempts to screw the top back on my ink bottle, for my hands are shaking with such intemperate excitement.This is — this is something.The trilling powder — that was interesting.But this?This is something <em>real, </em>something that feels deeply important.I don’t know yet what it means — I don’t recognize the symbol — but it has to be <em>something.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A knock sounds at the door behind me and I jolt in place, nearly knocking over a stack of books.I take a few moments to compose myself and then call out, “Come in,” in as steady of a voice as I can manage.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door opens and behind it, silhouetted in the light of the stairway, is Clemence.I can’t make out her expression through the deep shadow amassed over her face, but I hear surprise in her voice.“My lady… what are you doing sitting in the dark?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” I exclaim excitedly.“I’ve — why don’t you come in, I’ll show you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence enters without comment.Fidelity peeks over her shoulder.When she steps into the room, the door falls shut behind them and seals us together in darkness.“Can we light a candle or something?” she asks hesitantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I say, grinning.I beckon for them to join me and then realize they can’t see it.“Here — come here, carefully now, and I’ll show you something.”Of course, they know me well enough not to resist — at least not too much. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a quiet thump and a yelp and then a muffled, “Cheese and crackers!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?” I ask, trying valiantly to stifle my laughter.I don’t think I do a very good job of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine,” Fidelity answers, beleaguered.“I ran into a chair.I <em>wish</em> we had a light — but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It will be worth it,” I promise quickly.Fidelity grumbles something under her breath but gives no other complaint and soon I have her and Clemence on either side of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” Clemence begins, “What have you found?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With great care, I brandish the dagger before us, angling it away from the window so that the subtle mark has a chance to show itself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What—” Fidelity begins at the same time Clemence says, <em>“Oh.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think it’s some sort of maker’s mark,” I say.Enthusiasm swells within me.It permeates the air, seeps into my voice, leaks out of my pores.“I can’t read it, but it looks — well — not unfamiliar, don’t you think?Which gives me hope that I could — that we could discern its significance.”I set the blade back on my desk.“This is a <em>real</em> start,” I continue, a wide grin coloring my voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Interesting,” Clemence agrees.“Definitely interesting.”We all stand in silence together for several moments.I am practically vibrating with excitement.Clemence seems composed as ever, but there is a faint note of fascination in her voice, which coming from her is practically an effusive proclamation of intent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can we get some light now?” Fidelity asks somewhat petulantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Fidelity, we can send for light now,” I answer, rolling my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Actually,” Clemence cuts in.“Fidelity and I are adjourning for the night.Perhaps you should conclude your work for the evening and join us instead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, taken aback.“It’s that — how late is it, exactly?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just after eleven, or thereabouts,” Fidelity answers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I had no idea.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel the toe of Fidelity’s slipper gently nudge mine.“Why don’t you come downstairs and take a rest?We’ll tackle this together in the morning.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.Hmm.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown and carefully skirt my friends and make for the door.They follow after me.My hand closes around the door handle and begins to twist it.The yellow light of the hall blooms into view, lining the door with thin strips of brightness.I open the door further and turn and now, finally, I can see the faces of my friends: they look back at me with concern.Even Clemence’s face isn’t free of it.I shift uncomfortably and step backwards, the door at my back, pushing it further open with every step I retreat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know.I wanted to…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess,” Fidelity begins, her voice quiet.“You can work later.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile and beckon them through the door.“I’m not even tired, honestly,” I say, skirting the issue.Clemence and Fidelity step past me, but they linger outside the door.“I took a nap earlier and am actually feeling <em>very</em> awake now.”Fidelity opens her mouth to reply, but I cut her off.“I’ll just — look, I’ll spend a little time setting my notes to rights, finishing up, and I’ll be down very soon.Alright?”I smile back at them reassuringly.Clemence’s eyes narrow and I see her gaze catch somewhere below my own eye line.I wonder if I’ve got ink smeared across my face.I hastily fetch my handkerchief from my pocket and wipe at the spot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence sighs.“Very well.”She fixes me with a beady look.“But we had best see you in your chambers before we retire for the evening.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod hurriedly.“Of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a last look and a sigh, my friends turn and head down the stairs.I watch them go for a moment and then turn to the side, where Hazley stands looking neutral as ever. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hazley,” I say.“Do you know how to get the window working?I haven’t yet had a chance to figure it out.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They do, in fact, understand the window’s mechanism, and they show me the trick of it.There is a thin strip of dull, dark material sandwiched between two of the coils.It’s quite small and reflects no light and therefor is very easy to miss — particularly when one has only a small bauble for illumination.When removed, the coils connect and the drachenglas is activated.It’s a crude mechanism — simple and inelegant — but it is at least effective.My tower room floods with light.I quickly get back to work.I also check over my face in a small mirror and hastily scrub away the remaining ink on my cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time I begin to feel the first plucking of exhaustion at my eyes, midnight has long since past.I look guiltily at the clock, knowing that Fidelity and Clemence must have gone to bed ages ago.Even now, I don’t feel ready to sleep.The physical tiredness is there to an extent, yes, but I still have the thrill of discovery thrumming through my veins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leave my workroom for the night, Hazley in tow, but still I feel a deep restlessness within me.All the way down the long, winding stairway, I mull it over in my brain.I’m tempted, still, to return to my tower room — but I know my limits.Energized as I am, my brain has hit its limit for actual effective work, and so there would be no purpose in me continuing my research.Still, the desire is there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a bereaved sigh as we exit the stairway — and then I come up short.There, just a few paces ahead of me, is Feon.Again.A smile tugs at my lips.I hasten forward until I draw level with him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good evening,” I say, grinning. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon glances back at me.He doesn’t seem particularly happy to see me.“Hello,” he answers, his brow furrowing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing up so late?” I ask, falling into step beside him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I really hate that question,” he answers with mild annoyance.“What are <em>you</em> doing up so late, Allene?And two nights running, no less?I’m not a fan.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes.“Well, Feon, I <em>happen</em> to have been upstairs in my workroom doing long hours of very important research — as you likely should have been able to surmise.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He snorts.“Right.Because you are so <em>very </em>important, everyone must pay such close attention to your every action.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>am,</em> actually,” I answer loftily.“But that’s not why.”I wave a hand at him dismissively.“I know you’re very fond of this whole ‘I am dragon, hear me roar, but don’t expect me to pay attention or contribute intellectually’ thing you have going on, but I <em>know</em> you’re not quite <em>that</em> daft.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stops in place and sizes me up.I think we must have reached the door to his chambers.I halt beside him.Hazley draws even with us and stops as well.The look on Feon’s face — it’s somewhere between bemused and irritated. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s a really long-winded and annoying way of saying you think I’m a bit clever,” he says finally.He almost sounds amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well, you’re not wholly incompetent.And I actually wanted to pick your brain about something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.”He cocks his head to the side and surveys me.“You really know how to flatter a guy, huh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, <em>please,</em> like I need to,” I say airily.I turn away from Feon and address my guard.“Hazley — I’m going to have a quick talk with Feon,” I say.“He’s more than capable of ensuring my safety — I’ll have him escort me back to my chambers after, so you’re free to adjourn for the evening.I know it is <em>very</em> late,” I say apologetically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re making a lot of assumptions, there, Princess,” Feon drawls.It’s funny how he can make a title of deference sound so wholly derogatory.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, hush, you can walk me two hallways down to my chambers,” I reply, not even turning to address him.“Even you can’t mess that up and I don’t want to keep Hazley awake any later.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hazley looks between the two of us.Finally, with a huff of air, Feon gives up and shrugs.“Fine,” he says.“Sure.Whatever.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hazley nods and gives us both a sharp bow and breaks away from us.Since the revelation that my mystery stalker was Feon and not, in fact, a trained assassin, I’ve been steadily easing the comprehensive guarding of my person.I don’t <em>always</em> need to be protected by a personal escort.The palace sentries are more than adequate. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once Hazley has disappeared behind a corner and we are alone, I turn back to Feon.“Listen,” I say excitedly.“I have some <em>very</em> interesting news.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He allows me entry to his chambers, which are such an experience to behold that I stop short in the threshold, my eyes nearly bugging out at the overwhelming array before me.The parlor has the feeling of a living place turned inanimate — a jungle wrought in metal and cloth, a menagerie of trinkets.It is a room consumed by its contents, a place that is so overpowering in the sheer amount of <em>things</em> it contains that I think it could very easily swallow me whole. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Every inch of available space is crammed tightly with finery — small statues, fine pelts, antique furniture, ceremonial armor, musical instruments, large vases, haphazardly strewn jewelry, archaic weaponry, delicate hanging ornaments, and many stranger things besides.It is, all of it, treated with absolute disregard.Paintings half my height and taller are left carelessly leaned against the walls and furniture.Richly made tapestries are packed so tightly on the walls that many of them overlap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time my brain returns to my body, I find Feon staring at me impatiently.I step the rest of the way into the room and let the door fall shut behind me.Feon picks a winding path through the glittering sprawl and shows me to a lounge before the hearth.This, too, is covered nearly entirely in all manner of objects.Feon bends down and indelicately shoves the bulk of the items off the couch and on to the floor before indicating that I should sit.The couch looks rather older than those in my parlor.Despite the garishly ornamented goblet sticking into my back, when I sit at one end, the plush cushions swallow me up immediately with all the comfort of long broken in furniture.I extricate the goblet with only minor difficulty and set it carefully atop a nearby pile.Feon sits at the couch’s other end, his back pressed into its arm, his legs drawn up before him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A fire crackles merrily in the hearth, too warm for this time of year.Above the mantel are affixed a number of small portraits, each depicting some young, beautiful golden-haired creature.At the end of the line is Feon.His portrait looks down over the room, defiant and haughty and a little ridiculous looking in that “small dog, big attitude” sort of way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” Feon says peevishly.My eyes snap away from the line of dragon portraits and on to his face.“What was so important you had to strong arm your way in here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, listen, I couldn’t very well speak of it out in the open — and besides, I’m not certain even Hazley is meant to be party to this information.”I settle myself back into the lounge’s cozy embrace.“As you know, I’ve been looking into the matter of the dagger.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Feon’s focus sharpens.His eyes fix upon me with a sort of gnawing hunger — for vengeance, I suspect.I quickly explain my process — the initial roadblocks, the trials, the trilling powder, and finally my accidental discovery of the blade’s mark. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d very much like to get your eye on it later,” I continue.“See if perhaps it’s something you recognize.”Throughout my explanation, Feon has stayed surprisingly quiet, allowing me to monologue without disruption.After so long spent dealing with his ill intentioned interruptions, it’s a little off-putting.“Would you be amenable to that?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon nods.“Yeah, sure.Also, if you think there is some dragon business going on with the blade, I should be there.I know you tested some Daenian words earlier, but — and I want you to know that I mean this with full offense — your accent is <em>atrocious.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I throw my head back and laugh.“That would be wonderful,” I reply overly sweetly.“I’d really appreciate your help.”I grin down at Feon and watch as a petulant scowl forms on his face.This, of course, only makes my smile grow wider.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh, whatever,” he grumbles, sinking lower into the couch’s cushions.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” I begin off-handedly.“If you keep acting like this, I might believe that you’ve actually started to like me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon pulls a face, his round nose wrinkling in disgust.“Ew.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” I say, exhaling my words on a sigh.“It would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”I rise and shift, my knees sinking into the couch cushions as I lean forward.I extend my hand and poke the tip of my index finger directly into Feon’s sternum.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow,” he grumbles.His hand raises to press at that spot over his chest.Our fingers brush.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…If you started to like me or something.”I grin down at him.Our faces are very close now.I watch the shifting of his muscles as his throat constricts on a swallow.“Wouldn’t that be such a shame.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My voice comes out as something breathy and dark with intent.Feon’s eyes are downcast, his gaze intent on the pressure of my finger against his sternum.We stay there, frozen, the moment stretching tight between us.I feel the rise and fall of his chest under my touch.I hear the subtle rasp of his breath.Then his gaze flicks upwards, his golden eyes turning upon me.There is a question there — and an answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know who moves first, only that we come together with a clumsy sort of eagerness.Feon’s lips are hot and impatient.He kisses me with greedy persistence, all teeth and tongue and no finesse.His hands find purchase in my hair, curling into fists before he tugs me down into him.I go, unresisting.As I fall into him, our teeth clack together gracelessly.Laughter bubbles up from my lips.I’m leaned over, unbalanced, my body teetering forward.Feon’s outer leg drops from the couch, his foot hitting the junk covered floor with a thud.I slide forward, bracketed on one side by his other leg, my body slipping until my chest rests against his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He bites at my lips, my jaw, my throat.I find myself laughing, over and over and over, unable to stop until I’m breathless and shaking.Feon pulls back, his face going all pinched with annoyance.He looks ridiculous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I wheeze, barely managing to suck in the air necessary to speak.“Don’t stop.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His frown deepens.Still laughing, I collapse into him, my hands curled gently around his shoulders, my lips seeking his.Feon’s body remains stiff below mine for a good several moments, during which I do my best to absolutely ravage his mouth, until he yields, his body melting deliciously against mine, his hands moving to clutch at the small of my back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reach up to cradle his face in the curve of my hand.When the skin of my palm connects with his jaw, there comes a sudden flash of heat, painful and unexpected, like lightning in miniature.I jolt backwards as if stricken.Feon stares back at me, wide eyed, his red mouth hanging open. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Where my skin met his, his face has formed into gilt scales that glint golden in the low light.I reel back, head swimming a little, shaking my offended hand gently to relieve the pain.It’s more habit than anything else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hand doesn’t hurt anymore — not really.The pain left just as quickly as it came, but in that space I can still feel something, a residual heat.I extend my fingers flat, staring down at my hand.And there, still radiating a faint warmth, is the ring: simple and silver with a bead of amber nestled against the band.I haven’t removed it since that last evening Feon and I spent together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, my eyes raise from the ring.I find Feon sitting silently, his eyes fixed upon mine.His right eye — the eye on the side of his face which has grown scaled — has gone wide and bright, the pupil narrowing into a slit, somewhat like a cat’s.As I watch, his skin begins to slowly knit back in on itself, the scales subsiding, and his pupil swells to normalcy.I lick my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?” I ask cautiously.“I didn’t — I didn’t hurt you, did I?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon snorts at me, jerking his head to the side like an annoyed horse.“I’m fine,” he answers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My gaze flickers from his face, to my ring, and back again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” I begin, careful to keep my tone casual.“We never <em>did</em> get a chance to experiment further with this…”I extend my hand forward.The amber bead glints wickedly at the root of my middle finger.Feon’s eyes track the motion.“There’s so much we could do…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My voice goes soft and sly.I sound the words with care.In this moment, I feel very in my body: conscious of the press of my tongue against the backs of my teeth, of the give of the couch beneath my knees, of the swell of his cock along the outside of my upper thigh as I move against him.My hand moves to his sternum and rests there, palm down, my fingers splayed wide.I feel the stutter in his chest as his breath hitches, feel the way his thighs tense instinctively against me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s such a shame you’ve yet to invite me to your bed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s eyes bug out a bit and he makes a choked sound.I sink backwards on my heels and let my hand drop away from him as I loose a laugh.He remains frozen, half sitting, half laying, his face the very absence of composure. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He surges up after me, his hands moving to cradle my face none too kindly, following me with a biting kiss.He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth.I feel the rasp of his teeth as they scrape the tender flesh, feel the heat of him as he swallows my breath.I taste salt on his tongue, as well as something else, a lingering sweetness from something he must have eaten recently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we part again, it is to suck air greedily into our lungs, our chests heaving, his forehead pressed against mine, our noses squished side-by-side.He stares back at me, our faces so close it’s hard to focus my eyes properly.He is red faced and his eyes are much too keen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that enough of an invitation?” he rasps.His breath washes over me, hot and sticky.Sweat prickles at the back of my neck, at the dip of my back, at the juncture where my thighs meet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think that about does it,” I gasp, still struggling to draw breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stands and I follow soon after him, picking my way carefully through the thingsome jungle, my fingers scrabbling at the bow that keeps my wrap dress tied closed.His bedroom is just as cluttered as his parlor, a landfill of pretty junk, the floor suffocated by things, his bed engulfed by an overabundance of blankets and pillows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ahead of me, I watch as Feon’s tunic shifts over his body and then suddenly opens.He shrugs it off his shoulders and it falls to drape languidly over a small golden harp, leaving him free to wrestle with the buttons of his trousers.I pull the tie loose.The slide of the satin is cool against my fingers as the fabric pulls free.My dress opens and drops away easily and I quietly thank my lack of time this morning for requiring me to clothe myself so simply.Feon kicks his trousers off, stubs his toe on a wooden chest, and then stumbles face first into his mattress — which <em>crunches.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull up short, my fingers already working at the laced cord of my stays, and gawk at the sight before me.Feon’s bed is <em>covered</em> in all manner shiny objects: golden coins, surprisingly sizable jewels, pearl crusted broaches, bejeweled goblets, gilt dinnerware.The quality and value seem to range drastically from mundane trinkets and common currency to a necklace that looks suspiciously as if it might have once been someone’s family heirloom.With the bounty of pillows and blankets arranged at its perimeter, the bed has the look of a strange, golden nest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You <em>sleep</em> like this?” I ask, at once bewildered and begrudgingly charmed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon rolls over.The movement is accompanied by the soft crunch of crushed coinage, a distinctive metallic clatter.He reclines lazily, his eyes half lidded as they regard me, his chin thrust up defiantly.He is bare chested and trouser-less, the deep red of his Bond mark standing out proudly on his otherwise unmarred skin.My eyes roam his body and catch on the visible line of his arousal in his small clothes, the distinctive swell of his cock against his thigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off,” he says shortly, the words punching out of his lips like a challenge. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lays there like some sort of work of art, a statue posed atop a fountain, the petulant curve of his mouth carved out in loving detail, the glimmer of golden coins reflecting on his warm skin like the bounty of wishes made at a fountain’s edge.Sometimes I find it stressful just how strangely and deeply beautiful he is.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I toe out of my slippers and just shake my head, suddenly made mute.My fingers work hastily, numb to the bite of metal against my skin as I unhook my underskirt and my petticoat.I step out of them.I pull off my chemise.The thin fabric slides against my skin, a promise of imminent touch.Feon is watching me, his eyes chasing every inch of newly bared flesh.Soon I stand naked before him, relishing the heat of his gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I approach him slowly.I press my knee into the mattress and shift my weight forward, intent on crowding him into the bed.The metal edges of coinage dig into my leg and I wince, thoroughly ruining my artfully constructed vibe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon looses a rough, shallow laugh.I scowl and pluck a coin from the blankets and throw it at him, though not hard enough to hurt.I lean over and clear two spaces on either side of his body so that I can straddle his waist without sacrificing the comfort of my knees.As I settle over him, his laughter abruptly halts, cut short by his sudden intake of breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s better,” I murmur smugly.I bow forward and bring my hand to rest upon his chest, right in the center of his mark.The amber ring heats at our contact, but it is gentler now, a simmer rather than an explosion.“Now…” I say, my voice going low.“What should I do with you…”I grin down at Feon, savoring his blown out, hungry pupils, the slack line of his mouth, the growing swell of him against my ass.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I trail the tip of my finger down the length of his sternum, and where my finger touches, a trail of golden scales follows.Feon arches beneath me as if unable to resist the pull of my touch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What does it feel like?” I ask curiously.I caress the scales gently, smoothing them down the right way.“Is it different from your skin?”My fingers travel further, ghosting over the skin of his stomach.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course it’s different,” Feon scoffs.“Do you feel the same when touched, clothed or not?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So it’s like clothing, then?”I frown, a little disappointed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“N— No, it’s not like — it was just an example,” he splutters, going a bit hot faced.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I “hmm” back absently, watching as his stomach erupts in goosebumps under the whisper of my touch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When we talked before about your shifting — you spoke about having to connect everything properly, not only to have it in working order, but to properly be able to feel it, yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon eyes me uncertainly.“Yes…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s <em>very</em> interesting, you know,” I murmur.My fingers swirl over his skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it?” he asks, brow furrowing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press my palm flat to his sternum.Heat blooms between us and I shift my focus deeper, closer, seeking those connections, knitting them tighter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene?What—”I shift atop Feon, rutting against him slowly.My nails rake gently down his sternum.“Oh.<em>Oh…”</em>I watch, pleased, as his eyes go wide as the Virgis.His lips flap mutely, fishlike.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think…” I say quietly.I dip down, crowding over him, scraping my teeth along the line of his jaw.“I think there is much fun to be had with this.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My breath rasps hotly over the curve of his throat.Feon makes a strained, whiny sound high in his nose.I move my lips over his jaw, his neck, his chest, trailing my touch down, down, and with it bringing that heat, that growing connectivity, that depth of feeling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon squirms beneath me, his arrogance turning almost immediately to desperation.I slide down his body, retreating down the mattress, shoving all manner of expensive nonsense out of my way, ’til my face is level with his erection.It strains wantonly against its constraint, wetting the thin fabric of his braies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I pull the drawstring free of its knot and curl my hands against him, pressing the flats of my nails to the skin at his hips, sliding the tips of my fingers under the hem of his smalls, baring the sweet golden curls of his nethers.Feon’s anticipation, his impatience — it’s palpable in the tension of his abdomen, the questing desperation of his fingers as they settle into my hair.So I make sure to take my time to slowly peel away the last remnants of his clothing.His cock springs free of its constraints with almost comical eagerness.It’s swollen and tender looking, all red and glistening wetly at the tip.I ignore it and busy myself with stripping him completely.Once free, I ball up his underwear and toss it aside carelessly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” Feon says.I think he meant it to be a demand — strong, willful — but it comes out pleading.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin and lean over him, pressing the wet line of his dick against my cheek.“Hmm?What?Did you want something?” I ask with mock innocence.He smells like sweat and desperation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon lets out an aggrieved whine and shifts his hips sharply against me.My hands clamp down tight on his hips and hold him in place, aborting the movement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t think so,” I hum.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon glares down at me, air hissing bitterly between his gritted teeth.“Fuck you,” he all but growls.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep,” I reply blithely.“That’s the plan!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slap him semi-gently on the hip and then sink further downwards, turning my head to graze my teeth down the swell of his inner thigh.Feon jolts.His legs tense and then fall open.I laugh and suck a bruise into the skin there.When I pull away, I find something <em>very</em> interesting.There, nestled contentedly beneath the swell of Feon’s balls, is something unexpected — but not displeasing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I purr, my voice going low.“I didn’t think you’d <em>keep</em> it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wha—” he begins, distracted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shimmy forward, pressing one of his thighs up and out with my shoulder, spreading him before me.My finger trails down the line of his cock, down his balls, down to the soft bud of his clit, already stiff and jutting wantonly from the swollen curves of his cunt.Where my finger touches, the ring’s heat follows. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” he breathes, the sound more of a texture than a word.“It — it was a lot of work.Making it, I mean.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His voice is strained, his breaths coming in short and sharp as I flick his clit absently, feigning an interest that is more intellectual than sexual.In truth, I feel both.Feon sucks in a forceful breath and tenses beneath me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I — I didn’t want it all to go to waste.And it’s not like — it’s not like anyone would notice.Usually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know what I think?” I reply, careful to construct a mild indifference.I press the pads of my fingers against the slick bud, sandwiching it between them.Feon gasps and shudders.“I think you liked having a cunt.You liked it so much you didn’t want to risk my finding you without it.”I grasp his cock in my other hand and thumb the tip delicately.His hips buck fruitlessly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me, Feon.” I keep my touches whisper soft, more than nothing but never enough.With my fingers curled against his clit, my hand is positioned perfectly to cup his tight balls.“Did you rub one out while thinking about me?About my fingers?My breasts?My pussy?”I squeeze his balls none too gently.Air whistles between Feon’s open lips.He makes a desperate, whiny sound deep in his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you try to fuck yourself on your own hand and come up wanting?”Slowly, very slowly, I peel back the foreskin from the head of his cock.Feon squirms violently beneath me, his body thrashing in my clutches.“Did you wonder at my mouth — what it might feel like the next time I had cause to wreck you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly and without preamble, Feon comes.His throat looses a wild sound: a desperate, pitiful howl, more monster than human.His cock spasms with the force of it, spilling cum down my hand and over his stomach.His clit throbs against my fingers.He is thoroughly slick and so urgently hot.He radiates that need, that heat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s head falls back against the mattress with a soft thunk.He groans and I hear the clinking of metal on metal as he clears out a space for himself.His body begins to relax, going slack with post-coital bliss.He looks almost too soft, too loose limbed, too pliant to be embarrassed.Almost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I straighten and adjust our positions so that I am bowed over him, my hips pressing into his inner thighs, spreading them open, my mons aligning with his balls.If I had a dick, it would be pushing up against his pussy, sliding insistently forward until his slick folds acquiesced, accepting me fully.I take a moment to linger on that thought — it’s not a bad one.In fact, I find it quite agreeable.Until this point, I’ve all but ignored my own body, my own needs, pushing from my mind the persistent throbbing of my clit.But it’s there, always, deliciously uncomfortable, my thighs oiled by my own wetness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move until my body eclipses his, one hand thrust into the mattress to support my weight, the other — the one covered in cum — raising towards his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you think I was done with you?” I ask.“Oh, no, no, <em>no.”</em>I ghost the tips of my fingers across his lips.“I’m not nearly that nice.”I press my fingers into his mouth, watching avidly as he allows it, accepting them with a sort of startled innocence — an expression I’ve never before seen on him.I make a special memory of it and catalogue it for later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He must read something in my face — my satisfaction, my wicked delight — for his expression quickly shifts to something less open and almost hostile.He sucks my fingers into his hot mouth.He locks eyes with me, challenge writ in the stubborn jut of his chin, and slowly and thoroughly licks my skin clean — fingers and palm and wrist and all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very good,” I breathe.My thumb finds his chin.I turn his head gently from one side to the other, studying his face.His expression is guarded, perhaps a little confused, but he doesn’t stop me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, I’ve been wondering…” I begin casually.I run my hands down the length of his throat, over his chest, scraping my nails gently over his soft skin, his pert nipple, down the line of his abdomen, sliding through the mess of cum on his stomach.Everywhere I touch, I bring that heat, that focus, that connectivity with me, the ring a warm presence on my finger.Feon shudders and bites his lip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“With your new cunt… and all the free time you’ve had over the past few days…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift off him, reclining so that I am sat on my knees, Feon’s ass pulled into my lap.His cock lays spent but not entirely soft against his stomach.I thumb slowly down the length of it, over the soft skin, through the slick trail of cum that remains, prolonging the motion as much as I am able.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” Feon gasps, sharp like a hiccup. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers circle the base of his cock and pull, deliberate and unhurried, my hand oiled by the last lingering remnants of his orgasm.Feon jolts in my grip, steadied only by the presence of my other hand at his hip.Through the ring and through my experience of his body, I can almost feel it, the tiny starbursts of pleasure, like firecrackers on the cellular level, the intensity of his nervous system prodded into hyperactivity.I’m a little jealous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wonder,” I continue, ignoring him.I keep my hand firm on his cock, no longer too light, too nothing, my palm a sure presence against him as my grip tightens and my wrist twists.Feon’s body goes taut and he looses a sort of strangled wheeze.“What else you’ve had inside you.”My other hand slides from his hip, down, grazing the oversensitive bud of his clit, down to the velvety wetness beneath.I dip in first one finger and then, when it goes easily, I quickly add a second.Feon’s thighs convulse.He’s so desperately wet it overflows, spreading across his inner thighs and down on to my skin.He spasms around me, a frantic, enveloping heat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” I ask, keeping my voice mild.Feon doesn’t seem to hear me.His voice is a wreck.His cock stands hale and wholly hard in my hand, seemingly almost uncomfortably erect.His body trembles, caught in that space of too much, not enough.I still my hands.“I’m waiting, Feon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon blinks back at me dumbly, spit glistening down his chin and cheeks, his eyes hazy with a sort of hopeless, despairing lust.“W— What—” he wheezes.His gleaming curls cling damply to his forehead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aside from my fingers,” I say, punctuating my words by curling the aforementioned digits against his slick insides.Too strung out to moan, Feon makes a keening sound.It’s a struggle to keep my expression stoic, to prevent the wide grin that threatens to overtake my mouth.“What have you had inside you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“N-nothing,” he gasps, his eyes gone all wide.“Just — just you.Your fingers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, satisfied, my voice pitching up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Very</em> interesting.As a reward for his good behavior, I begin to move again, my hands earnest in their ministrations.For now.Feon goes <em>liquid.</em>I build him up until his body trembles, caught on the knife’s edge of pleasure, until he’s taut with pent-up feeling, until his fingers are dug so tightly in the bedding that they glint golden with it and I hear the distinctive <em>rrhhhiiip</em> of rending fabric. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I still immediately, pulling both my hands away without warning, moving them to his hips to hold him steady as he squirms and struggles, seeking fulfillment that I won’t allow.His body is in flames, his skin a mess of redness and gooseflesh.He is spread out before me, desperately hard and wanting and unable to come.His body throbs with it, his throat ravaged by a frantically frustrated cry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shhh,” I breathe, and lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his sternum.His chest flutters violently, his breath a caged bird.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Allene,”</em> he pleads, and when I look up into his face, there are real tears in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, dear one,” I say with feeling.I press him down fully into the mattress and form my body to his.He lets me in, the stiff line of his cock leaking wretchedly against my stomach, his thighs trembling and weak around my hips.“It’s okay,” I coo.I cup his face with my hands and kiss his lips, his jaw, his throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“F-fuck off,” Feon hiccups, his voice thick with snot.He thrusts his head to the side, away from me, and looses a wet sigh.I kiss his jaw, his cheek and taste salt.Whether it’s sweat or tears, I can’t tell.“Ugh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I murmur, continuing to press kisses into his damp skin.He lets me and only seems semi-reluctant about it.“Did I go too far?” I ask, chastised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nnnn— no… I don’t.I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” I repeat, and press another kiss to his cheek before I raise myself up off his chest, my hands sunk into the mattress on either side of his torso.My hair falls over my shoulders and down on to his naked skin.Annoyed, I shake my head until I get all my hair sorted and thrown over one shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I look down at Feon again, I find him staring back at me — or rather, at my bared tits — like he just can’t help himself.I can still feel the persistent hot throbbing of his cock against me.A breathy laugh bubbles up from deep within my chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You like them?” I ask, teasing.I lean further forward and squeeze my upper arms inward so that they press my tits together.“These old things?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon scowls and rolls his eyes, red faced and mutinous.“Whatever.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sink down from my hands on to my elbows, close enough to kiss the curve of his chin, so I do.Then I smile back at him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” I begin.I press the pad of my index finger to his chest and trace the lines of his mark.“I’d like to present you with a few options.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon eyes me cautiously.He gives an indistinct sort of “mmm” sound, which I take as an indication for me to continue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What I’d <em>intended</em> to do,” I say, “Is to find something nice and long to fuck you with.”Feon chokes.I smile back at him demurely.I even flutter my eyelashes for effect.“Though I suppose I failed to ask — do you even have — what do you call them here, a diletto?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he answers, red faced, his voice strained.He looks very embarrassed for someone who is currently leaking precum all over my stomach.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pity,” I say, and mean it.“I suppose we can use one of mine later.”I grin down at him wickedly.Feon makes a noncommittal sound, but I don’t miss the way his thighs squeeze around me or the jump of his pulse under my hand. I sigh.“You know, I’d really wanted to get you nice and full up before I rode you tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Allene,” </em>Feon squawks.I press my body to his and cant my hips to rut gently against him.His breath catches in his chest.I kiss his neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d still like to get inside you,” I breathe against his ear.“I could use my fingers.My tongue.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and pulls me to him.His arms wrap around the back of my neck and his lips find mine.I kiss him softly, sweetly, ’til he groans and sinks his teeth none too gently into my bottom lip.I promptly devour him.His mouth is hot and hungry.The space where our hips meet is wet with sweat and cum.I grind into him.He moans into my mouth and I swallow the sound.I can’t ride him — not in this position, not with his thighs still wrapped around my hips — but I’ll be damned if I don’t do <em>something.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I want him badly — want him under me, inside me, above me, want him full of me.In the time it’s taken me to fuck him (twice) I’ve seen more of him — more emotion, more care, more humanity, for lack of a better word — than I had in the weeks prior.And still, I want more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without breaking away from his lips, I lift my hips just enough to get my hand sandwiched between us.I grasp his cock, slide my palm down the length of it, press it into my mons, my clit, grind into him until we’re both short breathed and desperate.My clit throbs, a heavy rhythm, heady and true, and I can feel that mounting ache, the desperate desire to be filled.I’m close and I’ll come without it, but damn if I don’t crave it sometimes, and tonight, well, I was expecting it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I can bear it no longer, I let my head fall into Feon’s shoulder and cant my hips upwards.My free hand slips down his chest, over his body, ’til it finds my clit swollen and aching.My thighs are a mess, slippery and glistening.I jerk Feon off in earnest, too close to tease him anymore.Soon, he is shivering beneath me, and then with a gasp and a small cry, he comes again, spilling himself over my hand.I don’t last much longer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s lips find my neck, his fingers thread through my hair, and it’s the delicacy of it — the sort of wondering uncertainty in his touch — that does me in.I bite his shoulder, hard, and it steadies me through it.Little red specks dance behind my eyelids.Air hisses out of my nostrils with violent force.My arm aches with the exertion and I collapse into him with a muffled groan.Feon’s hands move gently in my hair, smoothing it away from my forehead, tucking it behind my ears.It’s stupidly sweet.I wonder if he realizes.I lick at the indentation of where my teeth met his flesh, penitent, though he doesn’t seem to mind it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m not certain how long we lay together, only that I am lulled by the gentle give of his chest beneath me as his breathing slows.My limbs feel heavy and worn out in the deeply satisfying way that only sex can achieve.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rouse some time later.It’s still late, I think — at the very least, it is not yet light out.I shift lazily atop Feon and groan when our skin sticks together, glued by layers of sweat and cum.I try to move carefully, but soon I feel Feon stir, and when I glance up I find his eyes open and staring back at me, the stuttering low light of the single lit lamp reflected there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I feel disgusting,” I say, as a greeting.I kiss him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You taste it too,” he agrees, his voice thick with sleep.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So do you, pissant,” I reply fondly.I unstick myself from his chest with no small amount of discomfort and rise to lean over him.“Ugh,” I groan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sink back onto my legs.Now our only place of contact is the small area where our thighs touch.Feon watches me silently. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should probably get back to my chambers.”I pull my hair over one shoulder and begin to braid it lazily.“But Laws be damned if I don’t desperately want a bath first.”Feon makes a noncommittal sound.“Oh, don’t worry, that wasn’t a poorly veiled request — or even an invitation.I’m much too tired.”I illustrate my point with a yawn.My fingers reach the end of my hair and I carefully twist it back at the nape of my neck into a tight bun, tucking my braid into itself until I’m confident it will hold.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a groan and the sharp clinking of spilled coinage, I rise from Feon’s bed and begin the unpleasant process of reassembling my personage.When I’m most of the way dressed, Feon speaks, his voice cutting the peaceful quiet:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you mean it?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.“Before, when you said that you’d owe me a favor?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I straighten, my stays halfway lazily laced, and look back at him.He’s sitting up now, his back to the headboard, his knees raised in front of him.In the low light, I can’t make out his expression. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I answer.“Of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon nods slowly, more to himself than to me.I watch as he wraps his arms around himself.“Do you think it would be possible for you to — to find some way to… dampen the Bond?Just.Make it a little quieter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I go very still.“Feon…” I breathe.“Is — is that really something you want?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shrugs, withdrawing further into himself.“Not for always,” he says defensively.“Just sometimes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” I say carefully.“And you can’t — you can’t do that yourself?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says, and I’m surprised by the amount of bitterness in his voice.“I think — I <em>know</em> there must be a way, because Caed manages it sometimes, I think.There are times when I feel — when it’s like there’s a wall between us, something that blocks me out, storm shutters, or — or something.Like the thread tying us together has frayed temporarily or like we’re very far apart.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you… talked to him about this?” I ask hesitantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Feon bites back scornfully.“Obviously <em>not.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say.“Okay.”I take a steadying breath and try to think this over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s — it’s not fair,” Feon continues.His voice is tense, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth.“It’s not fair that it’s just him and I — I didn’t much mind it before, not really.But recently…”He goes quiet for a moment and I can hear the exhalation of breath as he sighs.“Look, the two of you are getting married, and we’re — doing whatever this is,” he continues awkwardly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” I breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So I think some distance… might be good.For both of us.For all of us, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.Yes, I understand.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And I do — in a way.I’ve heard Caederyn’s side of it before — the knowledge that Feon must always be beholden to the prince’s heart.I understood, then, the responsibility that Caederyn felt, the deep wish to do right by someone he loved, to give Feon that respect that he deserved, even if he wasn’t giving Feon what he wanted.Even if he didn’t think to <em>ask</em> Feon what he needed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I still don’t entirely get all of it.It’s obvious to me, the depth of their feelings for one another: love and frustration and loyalty and need all knotted together until they are inseparable, indistinguishable.Feon’s desperation to have his love returned.Caederyn’s inability to extricate love from duty.Their utter inability to compromise with each other.The knives they both seem utterly determined to twist into each other’s guts at every possible opportunity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe space is what they need, after all — space from each other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” Feon bites out.“Will you do it?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even without seeing his face, I know how he looks: his mouth set in a stubborn line, his eyes hard, his chin jutting out challengingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will try,” I answer.“I don’t know much about how your Bond works — I’d meant to look into it regardless, but it is largely a mystery to me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I finish doing up the laces on my stays, shrug my dress over my shoulders, and then approach the bed.I lean forward and kiss Feon on the lips one last time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When we part, I say: “I will do my best.But you will need to be patient with me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” he says very quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” I echo. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile at him.This close, I can better make out his expression: he still has that defiant thrust to his lip, that stiffness in his jaw, but his eyes are uncertain and that brings a sort of softness to his face.I squeeze his hand gently once and then turn away.I wrap my dress around myself and fasten the bow to keep it closed.I pick my way carefully through Feon’s disaster of a room.When I reach the door, he asks:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you need me to show you out?”His voice is quiet, almost plaintive.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I answer, too consumed with my own thoughts to wonder if he’d <em>want </em>to.“Seeing as I know where you are right now, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble with worrisome stalkers tonight.”I hear the sharp <em>thunk</em> as a coin hits the wall two feet away from my head.Laughing, I retrace the winding path through his parlor and into the hall and return to my chambers.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and now i have a question for all of you: should i try to actually do something with the "chapter summary" section here? like a brief, non-spoilery summary or even a little preview of part of the chapter? it feels a bit silly to do at this point, but i have seen it recommended by some people!''</p><p>anyway, this concludes this section of allene's POV! up next is caed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. An Ill Thirst</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>small content warning for a minor gore mention towards the end of the chapter. it's not particularly graphic or detailed, but it's there.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend my days productively.Between Jasper and myself and the eventual addition of a couple young clerks, it only takes roughly a fortnight of late evenings and headaches to catch up with the bureaucratic work that piled up in my absence.We work together efficiently and quietly, often going hours without saying more than a few words to one another.It is horrifically dull.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Usually, I wouldn’t be able to go more than a handful of hours without Feon popping his golden head through my door and very stubbornly interposing himself into my day.He has his own responsibilities, of course — aiding in the creation of drachenglas and dragon ash and other such materials — but it is rare for us to go more than half a day without spending time together.Recently, I feel as if we have barely seen each other at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is my fault, I know.With my duties and with my burgeoning guilt and frustration, I threw myself headfirst into a mountain of paperwork, all the while hoping silently that the strenuous weight of obligation would distract me from the tangled mess of my heart.I shut Feon out as best I was able, muffling the insistent plucking of our Bond.And now, I think Feon must have begun to avoid me as well.We have not spoken in several days, not since that afternoon when we departed Allene’s workroom together.At first, it was a relief.But now…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now that I’m caught up with my work, I am better able to take time off to pursue more enjoyable things — such as surprising Allene with a quiet lunch together in her tower.Her smile is benefaction, her conversation a welcome distraction.I don’t deserve either, and yet I can’t resist pursuing them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s very interesting,” she says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We rest together in the open structure above her workroom, seated in pair of sturdy wooden chairs.For all the cushioning provided, they’re still not nearly as comfortable as the armchairs in her workroom below.The day is warm and bright and pleasantly somniferous.Between us sits a short table, its surface crowded with all manner of lunch foods.Allene pauses to tear off a piece of freshly baked lavosh and dip it liberally into a small bowl of cacik.The breeze tugs at an errant strand of her hair, blowing it into her face just as she raises the bread to her mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, bother,” she grouses, scowling around her mouthful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She plucks at the hair, pulling it away from her lips long enough for her to chew and swallow.The end is coated white.Grumbling to herself, she withdraws a handkerchief from her pocket cleans away the yogurt sauce as best she can.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, you were saying?” I ask politely.She doesn’t look embarrassed — just a bit annoyed.Still, I try not to laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” she says distractedly.She folds the handkerchief and pockets it.“Oh, yes, so, I’ve been looking into that symbol more.I thought at first that it might be some sort of maker’s mark — and indeed it might be.But what’s interesting is the symbol’s resemblance to the Fennlish script.I couldn’t find a direct translation for it in my phrasebook, but that’s hardly surprising — I’m not a linguist by trade and I doubt anyone bothered to inscribe ‘do you know where the lavatory is’ on the blade.I’m proficient where I need to be and generally that does <em>not</em> include needlessly complicated and obscure Ogrench dialects.”Allene speaks animatedly, her words clipped, like they’re bubbling out from within her and she can only barely get one word out before the next one follows quickly on its heels, cutting off the end of its predecessor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily obscure,” I interject, amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene rolls her eyes good naturedly.“Perhaps that was not the <em>most</em> apt descriptor, but it’s hardly common.I certainly have never had cause to use it in a practical setting.Have you?”She eyes me expectantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, a small smile tugging at my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So then I’m not necessarily wrong, now, am I?”She grins back at me cheekily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose not.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway,” Allene continues, picking up momentum as if there were never an interruption in the first place.“I think that identifying the symbol — or its nearest approximate — will be instrumental in deducing any further information about the blade.Inscribing a magical weapon is hardly ever a purely ornamental undertaking, and considering that I couldn’t even <em>find</em> the mark until certain circumstances were met, I think it points to the mark having some innate purpose or meaning.Like as not, if the symbol is not a maker’s mark, then I think it may be part of the magic of the blade itself, perhaps some form of ritual inscription to weave the magic into the metal, perhaps drawing from the power in its pommel.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene continues to talk enthusiastically, gesturing for emphasis as she enumerates several more theories as to the symbol’s meaning before eventually straying into less pertinent waters.She talks about the beating of magical intent into metal, explaining to me a number of methods for ensorcelling mundane materials.It’s interesting and overwhelming and near entirely foreign to me.I can’t help but sit back and listen, captivated more by her passion than her explanations, which I don’t wholly understand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve of course heard of many an enchanted weapon — swords and shields magicked to better serve their legendary wielders.But I’ve never before considered their making, at least not past what our records tell us: the Babel Blade, a leviathan’s fang quenched in the hidden Falls of Yearning tucked away somewhere in the Ashalt Range; Cassander’s unerring spear, said to be constructed from the branches of a Living Tree and headed by a shard of moonlight; the Hero’s Folly, a deceitful sword forged from the hearts of great warriors felled by treachery. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">These are of a different sort — they are items crafted from materials that were already innately magical, or at least materials that bore the potential to be.What Allene talks of is all together different — the base materials are mundane, but the method is not.I find it a strange concept.If a Nadaran warrior is in need of a stronger blade, it is no great task to enlist the aid of the current Bonded dragon (or a lesser wyrm) in forging any number of magically imbued metals.Such materials are strictly controlled, of course, and are not exactly common or cheap, but they are available.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, Allene seems to realize that she’s been talking with little to no interruption for the better part of several minutes.“Sorry,” she says, only somewhat abashed.“I’m rambling, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile and lean forward to stack my empty plate under another.“Yes,” I reply.“But I don’t mind.”This earns me a brilliant smile, the sort that fills her entire face.“I like listening to you talk.And it <em>is</em> interesting.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Taking this as implicit permission, Allene resumes her pontification.She speaks of the inherent magical conductivity of certain materials, how stabilizing a magical essence within a mundane material can prolong the innate magic’s longevity, and other such things.She speaks very animatedly and with such fervor that I can’t help but smile, though many of her musings surpass my limited understanding.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, you see,” she says, seeming to at last come to her point, “That the metal is mundane — or at least, thus far appears to be so — and that the pommel seems to be innately magical and that the symbol exists at all, it is all connected.I could be entirely wrong, of course, but I do not think I am.And it feels like for the first time really, truly, I have an idea of what we’re working with — a glimpse of the larger picture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a glimmer of something bright and compelling in Allene’s eyes, a sort of shining belief in both herself and the bedrock of her arcane education — as well as the inherent existence of a world that can be made to make sense so long as there is a mind brilliant enough to comprehend it.Allene likes it when things make sense and, finally, they are beginning to do so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I understand,” I reply.Allene beams at me.“As best I am able.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I exit Allene’s work room, I find Sir Sieglinde posted outside.Her ruddy face breaks into a sunny smile and she bows.“The Captain wants to speak with you,” she says.“She sent a servant up to tell you to stop by her quarters when you have a moment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I thank her and take off down the stairs, my thoughts consumed by endless possibilities.All manner of calamities flit through my mind: Emira, dead, laid low by the same sickness that took her husband; an attack upon the palace or one of its officers; an attempt on Allene’s life that she bravely attempted to conceal from me.These are all ridiculous notions, of course, and I have to forcibly remind myself of that.Had something truly catastrophic happened, I would not learn of it before the King.Likely, an emergency council would have been called.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, when I find myself at the Captain’s door, there is a frantic plucking at my heart, a sort of restless distress of which I can’t seem to rid myself.I rap my knuckles against the dark wood, wait a few seconds, and then, too anxious to be patient, I enter.I do not find the Captain alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, stopping short.“Am I interrupting—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Captain Elske cuts me off crisply at the same time that Connor says, “Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Captain sits behind her desk surrounded by a wealth of paperwork, all of which has been organized with militant precision.The walls around her are covered with maps, each one hung in perfect alignment and peppered with an array of multi-colored pins.There are shelves filled with stiff backed books, several cabinets occupied by meticulously kept records, a rack for additional armaments, all polished ’til they gleam. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The only part of the room that does not fall strictly under Captain Elske’s exacting standards is Connor.She slouches nonchalantly against the far side of the Captain’s desk, half sitting, her back turned to me, hands propped carelessly on the desk, her ass sat on its edge, shifting the Captain’s papers out of their perfect alignment.Today she wears her shaggy mess of long, washed out brown hair in a single sloppy braid that starts at her hairline and ends in a lazy ponytail at the nape of her neck, like she was told to keep her hair out of her face and has complied with minimal effort.Several strands of hair have already come loose, little flyaways that frame her irreverent face.She looks very much like a lion at rest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Connor,” the Captain says, her voice sharp with warning.She has the look of a city put to siege, a distinctly beleaguered sort of resignation in her lined face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh,” Connor says, her face wrinkling with distaste. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shoves off the desk and stands, leaving those papers upon which she perched slightly crumpled and in disarray.As she straightens, she claps the Captain on the shoulder twice and then leans in to say something in her ear.The Captain doesn’t move.Connor rounds the desk and comes to stand before me.She eyes me for a long moment and then very pointedly bows to me.Somehow, though her posture is properly deferential, she still manages to inject enough sarcasm into the movement that it makes me wholly uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is perhaps the most disrespectful person I have ever met, Feon included.I have never known the Captain to tolerate such behavior — and, further, I have never known the Captain to allow the perfection of her accoutrements to be compromised.Even I was admonished for this as a child, and I have been careful to not earn her ire since.I find myself quietly stunned, my body locked tightly in place as I try to reconcile these things in my mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace,” Connor says.The way she says it, I can tell it doesn’t come naturally.“You’re blocking the door.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I blanche and hastily sidestep.“Apologies.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Connor passes me, she claps me roughly on the shoulder and says, “No worries, kid.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor Gladhill leaves me stupefied in her wake.I don’t think I have ever been called “kid” before, regardless of my age.Not by my father or my mother or members of their council, not by any of the various tutors or nurses who took part in my education and raising, and certainly never by someone in my employ.The heavy door swings shut behind Connor and the Captain and I are left alone.It is painfully quiet in the Captain’s office.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have a seat,” the Captain says, finally breaking the silence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her words are clipped, her face sour, her posture stiff.The lines under her eyes look more pronounced than usual.I take a seat in the unrelentingly straight backed and uncomfortable chair before her desk.I watch mutely as the Captain sets her desk in order, flattening out the offended papers as best she is able.She makes it clear, without saying a word, that she has no desire to speak of what I just witnessed.And so, I drop it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is the news?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There have been reports,” she begins, “Of increased bandit attacks along the Sennald, concentrated particularly around its intersection with the Glut.”She pulls out her traveler’s journal and flips to the page that displays a closer, more detailed map of the relevant area.“Here, here, here, and here.”She points to each place in turn.“Most of the targeted caravans do not suffer loss of life, though those who resist do see violence.The primary motivation is theft and merchants in particular seem their favored mark.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s… rather close to where we were ambushed,” I reply, troubled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.And this began not long after.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The Helion guard has patrols there, correct?Have they caught anyone?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” she replies, dissatisfaction heavy in her tone.“The brigands wait across the border, hidden in the trees, too far from Helion to be regularly patrolled.They’re ruthless.And they’re quick.They never stick around long enough to be caught.I don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.“No.Neither do I.”I hesitate and then press on.“This… this must be related, somehow, to the ambush at Scoil Pass.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske nods.“Yes, that much is clear.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward, my elbow resting on the corner of her desk, my palm spread against my forehead, my fingers clenched in my hair.“We killed them,” I say.“None of our assailants survived.And they were very clearly not intent upon robbing us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It stinks of an attempted cover up.And a lousy one,” the Captain replies.In the stark light of her office, the lines of her face are deepened.For the first time I find myself thinking that she looks old.“Clearly this is being orchestrated by someone — the attacks are too careful and too coordinated not to be.If it were an isolated case, there would have been no follow up to the initial incident.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That seems… clumsy,” I say slowly.“Adding more people, more incursions — it gives us more information, more opportunities to uncover their motive and identity.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It would,” she agrees, “If we’d managed to capture a single one of them alive.”Captain Elske’s jaw is rigid with tension.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes.I bring my other arm forward, elbow on the desk, my palms pressed to my brow.I take a deep breath.“I can’t tell whether whoever behind this is incredibly clever or totally inept,” I say at last.When at last I look up, I find the barest hint of a grim smile on the Captain’s lips.“So.What do we do?”I straighten and sit back in my chair, letting my hands fall to my lap.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have instructed Lady Murrine to strengthen the guard and to increase the patrol radius in the area.She was already in the process of doing so, but I requested that she take further measures still and that she prioritize capturing the assailants over slaying them.We send emissaries to the nearby Ogrench communities and we send them with gifts and with protection.They may have information or may themselves be part of the scheme.If we are lucky, perhaps whatever local entities they pay homage to will take a liking to our gifts and see fit to pity us with their benign grace.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She says this all stone faced and without a hint of irony.I know many amongst the Nadaran people, even amongst the guard, who do not take seriously the old ways or those who live by them.They have lived too long in the city, in the land of sand and heat that drove out those who did not do well with fire.They have not come face to face with the inseparably interwoven beauty and horror that is at the heart of Ogren.They have not seen the tree that swallows the sky, nor the peoples who dance beneath it.Captain Elske is not one of those people.It is one of the reasons that I trust her still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever funds you need for this, I will approve,” I say.“This matter troubles me deeply and I am afraid we cannot afford what time we have already squandered.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske nods in grim approval.“I am glad we agree.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene has made some progress with the dagger,” I say.“I think she is nearing a breakthrough.We are not totally lost in this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope you are correct,” she replies.She doesn’t sound particularly optimistic.I do not think she dislikes Allene, per se, but regardless I do not think she puts much trust in the princess’s abilities.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next day when I search out Allene, a small neatly wrapped box tucked in one hand, I find her tower door locked, with no guard outside it.Surprised, I hasten back down the stairs and head for her chambers.I find Hazley posted beside her door.When they see me, they fall into a clean, sweeping bow, the polar opposite of Connor’s.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is she busy?” I ask, stopping several paces before them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Her Grace is having tea with a number of friends.I do not think she would mind the incursion,” Hazley replies.“Would you like me to knock, Your Grace?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I say, “Please.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hazley nods and raps neatly upon the door, waits several moments, and then opens it.I give them a curt nod and step forward into the doorway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Inside, I find Allene surrounded by a number of young women, including her Voswainian ladies and Lady Ballard, as well as a small number of women I recognize from the Nadaran court, and a pretty blonde I have never seen.They are all seated in settees arranged around two low tables that have been set for tea.Allene sits at their head, presiding over the lot of them.She looks very much in her element.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caederyn!” she exclaims, beaming, and stands from her armchair.“I wasn’t expecting you.To what do I owe the pleasure?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She approaches me with a smile.Strangely, I find it very difficult to look away from the strange blonde woman.She is staring back at me, her amber eyes uncomfortably wide, a look of deep and resounding dread dawning on her face.Allene steps into my space and leans in close to press a light kiss to my cheek.At last, I manage to tear my eyes away from that woman.Still, I feel strange. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed?” Allene presses gently, her voice gone all soft and quiet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” I say dazedly, blinking away little dark specks from behind my eyes.I realize I must not have been blinking.I find I have to actively steer my attention to remain on Allene.I can feel my heart beating, a fevered pace, so loud I am shocked she can’t hear it.“I have something I’d like to give you, but I can return later, if you’d like.I didn’t mean to interrupt.”I feel unbalanced, somehow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t mind,” Allene replies, sounding pleased.“And I’d love to see the gift, if you don’t mind an audience.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs and tosses her hair back over her shoulder in casual indication of her company.My eyes follow the motion and, once more, stray to that blonde woman.She can’t seem to look away from me either. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An overwhelming, swooping anxiety fills me, drowning out all else.My palms grow moist and my mouth goes dry.A rushing fills my ears, like the relentless thunder of the ocean crashing against a cliff.I feel faintly lightheaded.And there, within my chest, is my heartbeat: loud and persistent and drowning out the rest of the room.Only… it isn’t just <em>my</em> heartbeat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” Allene says, insistent now, and I realize that she must have had to repeat it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With all the grace of rusted clockwork, I force my muscles to work, force my head to turn to face her.It is a stilted, jerky motion.“Yes?” I say faintly.My voice sounds strange, alien, as if it is coming from someone else’s mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I believe you’ve yet to meet one of my guests,” Allene says, smiling.When finally I am able to focus upon her face, I find something strange there: a sort of quiet amusement, a gleaming fascination in those dark brown eyes.“I’d like to introduce you to one of my newest friends, Lady Fae of Cindwick.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The aforementioned woman sits frozen, her face locked in an expression of steadily waxing horror, until Lady Fidelity nudges her with her knee.She startles and jerks upwards, her blonde hair spilling down her shoulders like a fountain’s waters, standing so quickly that she nearly tumbles forward into the table before her.One of the other ladies lets out an amused titter as Lady Fae rights herself, her face burning, and sinks into a clumsy curtsy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is lovely to finally meet you at last, Your Grace,” she chokes out with all the grace of a sputtering flame just before it dies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Numbly, I nod.“A pleasure,” I say, my voice wooden.I turn back to Allene and press the box into her hands.“I’ve just remembered — I have a pressing appointment.Please open the gift at your leisure.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean in and press an awkward kiss to her cheek.I’m not certain how I manage it.I hardly remember the words I’m saying moments after they leave my lips.I nod in turn to the rest of the women and then flee.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once out of the room, I stop suddenly outside the door.Hazley regards me with a sort of politely perplexed expression.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hazley,” I begin.I feel vaguely short of breath and I’m not certain why.“There was a woman with Allene that I did not — that I had not met before.What do you know of her?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you mean Lady Fae, Your Grace?” Hazley asks.I nod dumbly.“She is a recent acquaintance of Her Highness.I believe they have grown to be quite friendly, for the princess requests her presence at her more intimate gatherings.”When I remain standing before them, silent, waiting, they continue, though somewhat more hesitantly.“Lady Fae seems… somewhat unpracticed in the ways of the court,” Hazley says cautiously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod again.“I… gathered as much.Thank you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hazley bows again and I take off, as quickly as I feel I can get away with without appearing strange.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I spend the rest of the day throwing myself into work: council in the afternoon, paperwork in the hours after, and training in the evening.I do anything and everything it takes to beat the thoughts right out of my brain.Captain Elske looks on approvingly as I push my body to its limit, but stops me when I try to overcome my body’s internal screeching, to force myself to sweat until I pass out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You need to calm down,” she says gruffly, her voice low so that the others do not hear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She doesn’t go so far as to physically stop me, but I can hear in her tone that it is a near thing.I can feel eyes upon me: curious glances from the other guards, from the pages and the servants.Panting heavily, I let my sword arm fall and drop my free hand to my knee as I double over and try to catch my breath.I feel vaguely nauseous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever’s bothering you, you can work it out in the bath.”I glance up and find Captain Elske’s eyes fixed upon me, her mouth drawn into a sour line.She almost looks concerned.“You need to stay warm for a while so your muscles don’t seize,” she instructs.I can’t get the words together to answer in the affirmative, but she takes it for granted that I will.“And drink some damn water.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t much remember the trip from the grounds to my chambers or the endeavor of stripping my sodden clothes from my sweaty body, only that Brennard had to help me.He was surprisingly decent about it, taking the whole undertaking very seriously.Perhaps too seriously.I think I may have felt less ashamed if he had tried to crack some joke about the whole thing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">While the bath fills, Brennard sits beside me and stares me down, beady eyed, until I empty the glass of water he poured for me.Then he helps me strip, peeling away the last, sweat drenched under layers of my clothing from my shaking limbs, and lowers me into the scalding water.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t need to do all this,” I protest weakly.“There are servants—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace,” he says bluntly, “Pardon my words, but you look like absolute hell.The Captain instructed me to see after your wellbeing and I would be remiss in my duty if I did not see it through properly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I tilt my head back to regard him blearily.Out of focus and upside-down, he very strongly resembles his aunt.It’s still strange to think of Captain Elske in that context — as someone with a family, someone who must have, at some point in her life, been soft, or at least young.I wonder if she was once like Brennard: over groomed and a little pompous, brave and skilled but too confident in the face of his lack of experience.He is only two years my junior, and yet he seems so very young to me — ironic, I think, considering our current circumstances.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” I say, and let my eyes fall shut as the water envelops me.I’m too tired to argue.Too tired to think, really.That’s probably a good thing.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t have the energy to think about Lady Fae or Allene until I wake the next morning, sore muscled and sour mouthed.When I attempt to seek out Feon in his chambers — for there is no mistaking that face and there is no mistaking the tension of our Bond pulled taut between us — he is strangely absent.Sore and ill tempered, my thoughts still in turmoil, I search for him all day. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can feel him in our Bond — always vaguely on the periphery of my awareness, but never near enough to search out.I feel many emotions from him: shame, fear, anger, guilt, panic.For once, I let them in.I close my eyes and lean back and soak in his impotent chaos like a lizard basking in the sun’s heat.He’s never kept a secret from me before, not like this.Academically, I can understand why he might want to: our recent distance, my betrothal, the pain in his heart, the pain I continue to shut out.And yet, the question stands:<em> why?</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know why he is pretending to be someone else — and why he is doing so around Allene.I can’t understand it.Feon has complained to me many times about the difficulties of shifting his form away from his usual human guise — about how deeply annoying it is, how it’s never worth the effort.He stopped really trying years ago, except every now and then to change his hair or half heartedly keep up with my recent growth spurts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I replay the moments over and over in my brain: his stricken face, so beautiful and horrible, the softness of those lips and the fear in his eyes; the despairing clamor echoing desperately through our Bond, so woefully loud it drowned out everything else.And Allene beside me, her eyes keen, without a hint of confusion in her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Does she know?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The question follows me through my day.It hounds me through breakfast and morning stretches, through my duties, preoccupying my mind so entirely that Jasper calls an early end to the day’s paperwork, telling me I am so distracted that I am an active impediment to the work at hand.When he and the clerks leave, I recline in my chair, listless, and try to sort through my thoughts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, when I can bear it no longer, I send for her.I don’t know how long I sit in silence, waiting, only that I barely hear the knocking at my door and the subsequent opening and closing of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed…?” Allene asks.I startle.She is very near to me — she is, in fact, standing beside my chair, her face contorted with concern.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take a deep breath and close my eyes.I don’t think I can look at her right now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know?” I ask, point blank, too strung out to go about this in a gentler manner.“Do you know about her?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a quiet rustling and then feel the brush of something against my leg.When I open my eyes, she is sitting next to me on the edge of my desk, her full skirts tumbling down the side of desk, skimming my leg.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” she says simply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes again.I’d suspected as much, but hearing it — it doesn’t feel good.I feel out of sorts, the ground collapsed beneath my feet, trapped in an avalanche of feeling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, air hissing furiously between my teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Caed,” Allene says sadly.There is a softness in her voice, a sort of painfully tender apprehension.“I thought he would tell you eventually.”She sounds genuinely remorseful.“But I did not think it was mine to tell.”I feel something against my hand — her fingers, as she seeks to take my hand in her own.I draw back.She doesn’t try again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” I bite out harshly.“Why did he do this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a bit silly,” she says, her voice gone all breathy.I think she would very much like to touch me — to comfort me.I won’t let her.“He wanted to spy on me,” she sighs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, I startle, my head jerking back, my eyes flying open.I find Allene perched upon my desk, her warm brown eyes intent on my face, her hands curled delicately in her lap.She smiles back at me, just a little.I think it’s meant to be comforting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think he wanted to find some proof of my supposed ill intentions towards you,” she continues.“Or at the very least he wanted to dredge up some sort of dirt on me to blackmail me into ending our betrothal.”Her nose wrinkles in vague annoyance.“Before assuming his disguise, he even attempted to tail me,” she confesses.I gape back at her.“Yes — he was my mystery stalker.”At my expression, she laughs a little.“It was an incredibly ill conceived plan.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod numbly.The anger, the hurt — it’s seeped away, draining out of me like dirtied water down a drain.I don’t know how to feel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a silence that stretches unbearably, I ask: “Does Feon know that you know?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Allene smirks, her glee barely dimmed by the context.“Oh, yes, I made very certain of that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She sounds pleased with herself.I wonder, vaguely, what that must feel like.Whatever she sees in my expression, it sobers her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Caed,” she sighs, “I am very sorry that you had to find out like this.I had hoped Feon would tell you in his own time — once he grew more comfortable with no longer hating my guts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say stupidly.“Is that — is that why he was at tea with you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” she answers.“We’re — we’re working on it.We don’t get along perfectly, but I think there is a real chance for peace between us — for an arrangement between the three of us where we can all live in accord.”She peers back at me intently.Her words are careful, measured, as if this isn’t the first time she’s thought about this.“I didn’t want to pressure him too soon and risk upsetting the balance.”There is a keenness in her, a deliberateness in her wording.I feel as if I am missing something.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say, a weak laugh bubbling helplessly from my lips.“Of course not.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” she implores, her eyes wide, and this time when she reaches for my hand, I let her.“I can see now that this wasn’t fair to you — and I’m so sorry that you’ve been hurt by this.”I don’t say anything, not for a long time — so long that I think she begins to grow nervous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, now — now that you know — I think it would be alright to relax the guard somewhat,” she babbles.“After all, it was just Feon — we needn’t worry quite so much about violent incursions in the palace.”Eventually, she lapses into an anxious, hand-wringing silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take a deep breath.“I need time to think about this,” I reply.“Alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene nods.“Okay.”She squeezes my hand and then lets it go.She slides off the desk and back onto her feet.I don’t turn to watch as she leaves — but I hear it when she stops. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed…?” she calls hesitantly.I glance back and find her poised at the door, her hand hovering over the knob.“Are you upset with me?”Her voice comes out very quiet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes me several moments to sort through the question: to look at it, think about it, mull it over.“I don’t know,” I answer finally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.I understand,” Allene replies, a faint quaver to her voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She begins to turn away from me, but stops when I ask: “Does anyone else know?That it’s him?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Here, Allene smiles, though it’s just the faintest imitation of her usual brilliance.“No.Not that I know of.Not unless someone else has figured it out without my help.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.With one last look cast my way, Allene leaves.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slouch in my chair and let my head fall back, all the tension bleeding out of me.I feel, very suddenly, entirely exhausted.I don’t know what to think or what to feel — let alone what to do.One thing is for certain: eventually, I will have to confront Feon, even if it means cornering him to do so.And I am deeply, desperately not looking forward to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s strangely easy to pretend like everything is normal, like nothing much has happened.My life is filled with a wealth of distractions.There is never a shortage of things to do.The only difference is that I find myself avoiding both Allene and Feon.I can’t so much as think about them without feeling deeply confused and upset.It’s a rock in my shoe, a splinter in my thumb, a sore tooth I can’t help but worry with my tongue.After two days, I have come no closer to any form of solution, internal or external, though I’ve thought about it exhaustively.And I’ve yet to see even a hint of Feon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When morning training ends, I find a servant waiting for me, a letter grasped nervously in her hands.There is a fine layer of sweat beaded upon her brow and she is breathing somewhat heavily.She must have run here.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace,” she says and presents it to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I open it and read.It is a summons from Allene.It’s worded vaguely, but her meaning is clear: there has been some form of breakthrough in her research.I thank the servant and scrawl a quick response and send her away.Eagerness and trepidation in tandem pluck at my heart as I hasten through the palace halls and into my chambers for a quick freshening up and a change of garb before I rush to Allene’s workroom, taking the stairs two at a time.At the door, Sir Sieglinde smiles and bows me in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Inside, I find Allene standing over her desk, which looks very much as if an extremely localized hurricane has come and gone, leaving a feverish sprawl of papery detritus in its wake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed!” she exclaims when she sees me.She smiles and there’s something in it — like a long held breath finally released — that picks at the scabs within me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, Allene,” I say quietly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door falls shut behind me and silence settles over us like a thick layer of dust — stuffy and clinging, but impermanent.I’ve never seen Allene look quite so awkward and a part of me regrets being the one to bring this upon her, and yet I can’t quite manage to let go of my resentment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ever courageous in the face of discomfort, Allene tucks her hair behind her ears and barrels forward, bullheaded in her dedication towards unfreezing the strangeness between us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have news,” she begins, and gestures me forward.I join her at the desk and look over the books and papers strewn there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is all this?” I ask.Even in my turmoil, I can’t leave her alone to flounder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“After our lunch together, I began to compile any Fennlish language books I could find — phrase books, fables, historical accounts, anything.The palace library didn’t have much, but with a little finagling and an allocation of funds, I was able to prise a few additional works from the grubby hands of your local occult society.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Our what now?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, that group, what is it called… the Cinefaction.”She waves a hand before her dismissively, her face wrinkling with distaste.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, “Them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, anyway, it was a good idea to contact them, I’m grateful that Sir Sieglinde suggested it,” she continues.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blanche.“What?<em>Sieglinde?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Allene answers.“Apparently she has some family involved there.You didn’t know?”I shake my head mutely.“Regardless — it was a good suggestion.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene leans forward and selects one book from the pile. It’s small and bound in dark, worn leather that looks as if it has been stained in places.When Allene opens it, my nose burns at the smell: the caustic bite of ammonia and a pervasive, underlying note of something else, something sour and almost rancid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh,” I say, one hand raising to cover my nose and mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s been an absolute headache to work with but, well, it was worth it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She flips carefully through the fragile pages.They’ve gone so thin in places as to turn the paper translucent, with little spots of transparency surrounded by glossy rings of grease. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You see, <em>this</em> book is written in Fennlish…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Upon finding the desired page, she sets the book down carefully on her desk and selects another book from the spread.This one is similar in dimension, except that it is perhaps twice as thick as the first, if not more so.Fortunately, when she opens this one, there is no accompanying smell. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And this is a version translated Glennish!It’s a bit linguistically antiquated, but that’s less of an obstacle than it is an annoyance, and it’s certainly easier to deal with than attempting to muddle through the original Fennlish.And my Glennish is <em>very</em> good.”Seemingly pleased with herself, she opens the second book to the appropriate page and sets it beside the first.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squint down at the two books and look from one to the other.I can understand Glennish, though I speak it better than I read it.It is the common tongue in Ogren and it is the easiest of their languages to learn, but reading it still gives me a headache (even without the fumes).After scanning the two books for a good few minutes and only picking up, at best, every fifth word on the Glennish side, I give up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Glennish must be better than mine.Whatever it is you’re wanting to show me, you’ll need to be more direct,” I say, somewhat abashed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Allene says, startled.“Of course.”She hurriedly leans over the books, scans them for a few moments, and then points out a segment from each.“Here and here,” she says excitedly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Seeing my confusion, she then hastily turns around and fetches her journal and holds it out for my perusal.It’s open to a page where she has meticulously copied the symbol on the dagger’s blade.I look from her drawing, to the Fennlish book, and then the Glennish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ohh…” I breathe, wide eyed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then you see it too!” she exclaims, beaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.These two,” I gesture from her journal to a segment of the Fennlish book, “They’re very…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very similar, yes,” she interrupts eagerly, too impatient to wait for me to finish. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She flips forward several pages in her journal.Here, she has copied first the symbol on the blade, and then its corresponding imitation in the Fennlish book and there, below that, a number of words in Glennish.Seeing them all together, I can see the resounding echoes of the original symbol in the words juxtaposed beneath it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the meaning—“ I begin.I squint.Already, I can feel a headache coming on from the stained book’s fumes.“Something about water, or… not water, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thirst.An unquenchable thirst,” Allene blurts, unable to wait through my struggling any longer.She sets her journal down upon the table above each of the books.As she does so, words tumble out of her lips like rolling white water down a rocky slope.“It’s <em>very</em> interesting.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stifle a laugh.She seems quite fond of that phrase.Allene hardly seems to notice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See, the context of this — this book is, well, it supposedly documents some very unsavory Ogrench history.I’m not certain how much of it is true and what of this is just overdramatic wives’ tales retold to be particularly horrid, but, well, <em>this </em>chapter in particular — this is about a community of cannibals deep in the Noirmog Swamp.It was, frankly, a disgusting read.Very, erm, enlightening, if you are interested in learning to survive on human flesh, but not necessarily enjoyable for me personally.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, a feeble smile on my lips.“I can’t imagine it would be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Only it wasn’t necessarily entirely cannibalism,” she barrels on determinedly.“There was apparently some fight there, some terrible battle that turned into a real blood bath, and the land — the land itself grew a taste for blood.Apparently.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can practically hear her roll her eyes, though she maintains a straight face.I would believe just about any dark and terrible story about the depths of Ogren — Allene, I think, is still a skeptic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The people there were incidental — whether the land itself grew caustic and lost its nourishment or somehow drove them to madness, it seems the whole place went… bad.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She flips forward a page in the Fennlish book and indicates a drawing there.The picture is done in ink, penned by a shaking hand.It is rudimentary at best.It depicts a man, half consumed by the land beneath him, his face grotesque, his bones jutting out from his skin, his entrails wrapped around him like tinsel on an evergreen, and all around grow red, red flowers.The drawing has been stained brown in artfully strategic areas — with tea, I hope, though the smell indicates otherwise.In spite of the artist’s lack of skill (or perhaps because of it), I find the image distinctly chilling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I won’t trouble you with too many details, but the important part here is the flowers,” Allene continues.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really?” I say.“The <em>flowers?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.They’re — they have a name.That’s this.”She raises her journal again and taps the symbol written in Fennlish.“Stirixa.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I interject.She glances up at me curiously.“Unless you’ve something else to show me there, would you mind—“ I gesture weakly at the stained book.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” she yes, and hastily shuts it.“Yes.Sorry.I’ve grown a bit used to it, working over it so long.It drove Fidelity and Clemence right out of the room every time I opened it.”She laughs a little and sets the book aside carefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But, so, you were saying… about the flower?” I prompt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes!Yes.”She takes a breath and then lets loose a barrage of words.“The flower is called a stirixa, but more than a name, it has a meaning, sort of.It’s evolved from ‘stirix,’ which roughly translates to ‘ill thirst’ or ‘unquenchable sickness.’Basically, their sort of euphemism for the rampant cannibalism and the whole, you know, blood drinking flower situation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say faintly.I feel mildly nauseous.“Of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Allene says remorsefully.“It’s gross, I know, but it was all vital — Caed, this gives us <em>something.”</em>She looks up at me with eyes shining with their own form of hunger — and a spark of hope.“I don’t know yet exactly what the blade’s symbol means, but this gives us a definite direction, and now that we have that, we can hone our research.I’ve already sent a letter off to the king detailing my findings and I’ve also made several suggestions for courses of action we should pursue.Foremost, I think we had best enlist help — and the <em>right</em> sort of help.”She speaks at full gallop with hardly pause to draw breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A master blacksmith, even one with arcane skill, may give us some answers, but increasingly I suspect they will not be the most vital ones.But if we can find a scholar — someone who studies language, Fennlish specifically and its roots, someone specialized in this sort of peculiarity — I think we could make some real headway.And if it’s scholars we’re looking for — even if my reach is primarily limited to Voswain, I do have <em>some</em> connections elsewhere.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, I raise my eyebrow inquiringly, and she finally stalls out.“We… we have a book club,” she elaborates, almost bashful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course you do,” I say fondly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, I’ve readied drafts of several letters to send out to various acquaintances, which I have copied and included along with my findings to present to your father.Once approved, I have some means of sending correspondence that is somewhat faster than your typical courier, and I do genuinely believe my contacts will be of some help — or at the very least, that they will be able to point us towards other individuals more suited to the work we require.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s speaking animatedly and her face is alight with the enthralling joy of discovery, of progress.In that moment I feel my own thirst — a craving for the ease that has lapsed between us.I find, strangely, that though she is standing before me, I miss her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am very pleased to hear that,” I say, my voice gone strangely soft.She must notice it, too, for she looks back at me questioningly, her elan waning as uncertainty returns.I open my mouth.I hesitate.I wet my lips.“Allene…” I breathe.“I think… I think perhaps we should talk.If… if you have a moment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Always,” she says immediately.“Of course.I always have time for you, Caederyn.Why don’t we, oh — please.Please, sit.”She indicates the two armchairs on the opposite side of the workroom, the ones that Fidelity and Clemence usually occupy.I nod and together we sit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes me a minute or so to compose myself, to sort my thoughts into some semblance of order.During that time, Allene crosses and uncrosses her legs no fewer than four times.She fiddles with one of the buttons on her dress.She picks at the hem of her sleeve.She tucks and untucks the hair behind her ears twice.And all the while, she sits, quietly, her foot tapping anxiously, both her eyes locked upon mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward and rest my elbows upon my knees and exhale a long breath.“Sorry,” I say.“I know this must be — I know I’ve made you uncomfortable.I don’t mean to.I’m just having trouble...”I raise a hand and gesture loosely in the air before myself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s alright,” she says.“Take your time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn my head slightly, enough so that I can meet her eye.I smile at her, just a little.“Thank you.”I take another breath and barrel onward.“I know I’ve been — upset,” I begin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have reason to be,” she replies quickly.She opens her mouth to speak more but I glance her way again and when our eyes meet, she quiets.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m — I’m not contesting that or… or feeling the need to defend my right to be upset.But I think… I think I have been unfair to you.I don’t like that you kept Feon’s doings from me, but I understand it.I understand that you felt it was not your place to tell me and that you were trying, in your way, to foster accord between us.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene nods slowly.Her brow is knit, her lips pursed into a tight bud.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think… that in my frustration with Feon — and in his total avoidance of me — that you have been… that I have let my frustrations fall to you instead.”I bite my lip and take a deep breath.I clasp my hands before me.I can feel, very distinctly, the sensation of my heels grinding down into the floor.Only that part of me feels wholly real — the rest of me feels disjointed, disconnected.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon has never lied to me before,” I continue.“At least, not about anything important.And I know this wasn’t technically lying — but he was withholding something from me and in this context, they’re one and the same.And I’ve never — we’ve never—”I stop and shake my head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We aren’t like normal people.Like normal — friends or… or whatever you want to call us.There is no <em>normal</em> for us.There’s not even a word for what he is to me — not that I know of.Not other than our title.‘Bonded’ — I mean it’s not inaccurate… but it doesn’t begin to encapsulate the whole of us.Rain is water.Solfoss Lake, the Glut — they’re both water.But calling the whole of the world’s great ocean ‘water’…It’s accurate, but it’s inadequate.”I can feel myself growing frustrated, can hear the rising timbre of my voice, can feel my face becoming heated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene leans forward slowly and gently places a hand on my knee.“I know it hurts, Caed,” she says, her voice barely a breath.“And I’m sorry to have played a part in that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I force myself to calm, force my voice to fall to a normal volume.“When I was three,” I begin, “Mother and I made the journey from Soliss to the heart of Domina.Mother was — better then.Perhaps not as strong as others might be, but she was capable of the journey.We’d been postponing it for weeks because Father was in Verlante for negotiations, but they just kept stretching on and on because all the different Ogrench communities couldn’t seem to settle matters amongst themselves, let alone with us.And it came to the point that we had waited so long that we had to travel without him, though it was inauspicious.But there was nothing to be done — there was only one dragon left in the brood that was suitable to our needs, and soon he would outgrow that vital period.And waiting for a new brood… it would be much too late.So we left quickly, just Mother and myself and a company of guards.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t remember much about the journey — not much more than the guard who would toss me up in the air and let me play with his cape.But I remember when we reached the nest — the oppressive heat of it, cloying, clinging to me, making it difficult to breathe.And in the midst of it — him, golden, not much different in size from myself.He was the smallest of the brood, the only one left with eyes unopened.His brethren — they kept a cautious distance, but never strayed too far, for I could tell they were quite curious about us.About me.They were myriad colors, but all were touched, in one way or another, by gold.But only the small one — the runt — he was entirely gilt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was frozen, entranced, unable to move until Mother nudged me forward.I stumbled and nearly fell.I could tell, though his eyes were fastened shut, that if they had been open he would have been looking right at me.I approached, at once fearful and entranced.My hands found either side of his head and it was — he was — despite his scaled exterior, I found him… soft.Delicate, almost.His scales were so fine they were near translucent in places. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was so fascinated by this, so consumed, I almost missed the moment when his eyes opened, but I didn’t, and our eyes — Allene, our eyes met and I couldn’t breathe.Not because of the heat, but because I knew in that moment that he was mine and I was his and that I would do anything for him.There is nothing like it — that awe and wonder, that persistent warmth.It was like my blood was singing, like everything within me knew that no part of my life would go untouched by this creature.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a roughness in my throat — a soft rasp as my vocal cords protest this abuse.I haven’t done much talking recently, and I’m not certain I’ve <em>ever</em> spoken this much, uninterrupted, save to give a speech.Allene sits quietly beside me, her feet planted on the floor, her hands clasped before her, her eyes rapt.All that nervous energy has fled her and left her quiet, still, intent — totally focused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should have brought water,” I grouse without bite. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene lets out a quiet laugh and stands and fetches a cup from somewhere in the chaotic sprawl on the desk.She uncorks a small jug of water, hefts it, and pours.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I say as she hands it to me.She nods and resumes her seat.After I’ve taken several grateful sips, I continue.“Living with a small dragon — particularly one not yet Bonded to me — was… strange.He was a being of chaos, even more so than he is now.”At this, Allene laughs.“Hard to believe, I know.And worse still — for my mother at least — we were fast friends and whatever trouble he got up to, I was doubtlessly involved in.He stole things — anything he could squirrel away.I suppose that hasn’t particularly changed…”I smile.“We were wild together, and he particularly so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We were inseparable — so much so that even though Feon had a bed of his own, he would sneak into mine more often than not.I frequently awoke drenched in sweat and overheated, his scaled body curled against mine, emanating heat — often to the point that I would suffer minor burns.But we were helpless to stop it — Mother and Father were nearly as taken with him as I was, and they could hardly fault him for the very instinct we had sought in him in the first place.So we kept a healer on retainer and I grew very familiar with the smell of burn salve.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Speaking of it, I can’t help the foolish smile that overtakes my face.Though I am upset with him, these memories, though in some ways painful, are too precious to be discolored by our recent disquiet.I heave a long sigh and press my hands to my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” I mumble, my voice muffled.“I’m trying to — I’m trying to explain, but… I fear I’ve only succeeded in waxing sentimental.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene lays her hand upon my knee.When I glance up, she is smiling.“It’s alright,” she says gently.“I don’t mind.”She hesitates a moment before her smile takes on a more brazen flavor.“I like listening to you wax sentimental.And it <em>is</em> very interesting.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh breathily and swat at her hand gently.She catches my hand with hers and gives it a squeeze.In that moment I feel so helplessly fond — of both Allene and Feon as well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Our hands now clasped, I continue.“Feon was… he was strange and magical but more than anything, he was fascinated by me and I by him.We had yet to be Bonded, but there was a magnetism between us, a harmony in our blood.I think, from the moment we met, that there was no way for either of us to be whole without the other.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene nods.“And so when you found out that he had been… keeping something from you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It feels wrong,” I murmur, eyes downcast.“I know nothing is… <em>right</em> between us — not now.Not after I’ve so royally fucked everything up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, not <em>yet,” </em>Allene teases, her smile turned to a leer.“But we’re getting there.”She winks at me coquettishly.It takes me several moments of backtracking to catch her meaning and when I do, I feel all at once flustered and deflated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Allene,”</em> I breathe, stifling a feeble laugh, my voice pitched up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry!” she exclaims, ducking her head.“I couldn’t not!I’m sorry!Please, please continue.I know this was wholly inappropriate, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We are interrupted by the sound of a pointed cough from somewhere behind me.I turn hastily and find Feon standing in the doorway, his short golden hair hugging his face, his expression decidedly strange.I didn’t hear him open the door and I have no idea how long he has been there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry to interrupt,” Feon says, not sounding particularly sorry.“But I was asked to deliver this.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon strides across the room without looking at me and carelessly deposits a letter in Allene’s lap.As he walks, I hear him grumbling all the while about how this “isn’t his job” and “if we’re so lacking in servants perhaps we should hire more.”Allene opens the letter immediately and begins to read it over.Even from a small distance, I recognize my father’s stationery.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance back towards Feon, and find him — in that moment and that moment alone — staring back at me, his face contorted unhappily.The instant our eyes meet, he looks away and flees for the door.I can feel, in our Bond, that he is at war with himself: anger and hurt and guilt and jealousy all wrapped into one small, golden package.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait!” I call hastily and stand.I reach out and just barely manage to grasp Feon’s wrist in my hand.“You can’t keep avoiding me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I can,” Feon retorts petulantly.“Just watch me!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon!” Allene snaps.She hasn’t looked up from the letter in her hands, but her tone brokers no argument.“I’m done dealing with your shit.Go settle things with Caed or I’ll be very displeased with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s hardly an incentive,” Feon spits back, but despite his resolute face, I can feel something within him: a twinge, a moment of fear.That in and of itself is surprising enough that I lose my grip on him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instantly, Feon is out the door.I stand, numb, for a solid second before Allene yells at me, “Go!” and I take off after him out the door, down the stairs, past a very stunned looking Sir Sieglinde.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon leads me on a furious chase through the palace, not caring what we look like or who sees us.And I — I grit my teeth and abandon my dignity.Desperation wins out in the end.This has been going on too long already and I am sick of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the end, I catch him in the conservatory.He leads me on a winding chase through the palace halls and down over the lawn, across the grass and into the massive greenhouse at its end.He tears down the tile pathway with hell on his heels.At this point, we are both of us short of breath and suffering, and yet fiercely allergic to admitting defeat.I only manage to snatch him at the central clearing when his foot catches on the edge of the pond’s stone enclosure and he stumbles face first into the shallow pool.I grab at him, he turns to fight me off, and together we fall with a resounding splash.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Water hisses off his angry body as I hold him pinned, his wrists burning my palms.He lays seething beneath me, his body prone and mostly submerged in the shallow pool save for his face.We are both of us utterly drenched — though he more so than I — and I can barely bring myself to care.My knee smarts where it smacked into the pool’s bottom in my haste to catch him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I bite out, my teeth gritted tightly.“Enough.This has been <em>enough.</em>I know I’ve been — that I haven’t been kind to you or your heart.I <em>know.</em>But please.<em>Please talk to me.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though he’s the one pinned to the pond’s bottom, I am the one begging.Something wet drips down my face and I can’t tell if it’s water, sweat, or tears.Feon’s hands are balled into fists.He glares up at me, his eyes locked upon mine, his skin gone gilt in places.We both know that if he truly wished to, he could shift and throw me off easily.The air between us boils.The space between breaths is stretched unbearably long.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” he croaks out finally.It comes out wrong, stilted and broken, not anything like my fierce counterpart should sound.He’s shaking, trembling with his entire body.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t lie to me,” I plead.“Please don’t — not you.Not anymore.Not again.I can’t — I can’t handle it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stills beneath me.His eyes go wide.He licks his lips.He looks torn on the edge of two great terrors, his body arrested by fear.I can feel it within him, feel that desperate adrenaline plucking frantically at our tether.And all the while, he can’t seem to look away from me.Feon’s eyes are vast.They are golden wells of absolute horribleness.They are irreparably dear to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” he says again, his voice a hiccup of emotion.“You know how I feel about you.”His voice is little more than a breath.“How I’ve always felt.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Danger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reel back in panic, my grip going slack.Feon seizes the moment and surges forward, slapping my hands aside as his lips find mine.His hands fist tightly in my hair, gripping too hard, shoving our mouths together.He bites at my lips, harsh and demanding.His body is an open flame.I am scorched by it.There is absolutely nothing gentle about the kiss — it is all anger and longing with no room for tenderness.He pulls me to him and I taste blood and I know, somehow, that it is mine and not his.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I gasp.I jerk my head to the side, my scalp smarting where his hands pull at my hair.His breath is hot against my cheek, his face flushed an angry red.“Feon, <em>stop,”</em> I choke out.<em>“Please.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stills instantly.His hands uncurl and fall free from my hair.He draws away.His retreat should take the heat with him.It doesn’t.His lips are red with my blood.He won’t look at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” he breathes out, almost laughing.His shoulders tremble.“That’s what I thought.”His voice is filled with an intense, bone grating bitterness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next moment, he is back on his feet and fleeing me once more.This time I haven’t the strength to chase him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon leaves me there alone in that pool, my mouth full of blood, my head buzzing yet empty.I sit, stunned, the water soaking me through.Above me, Solene gazes benevolently out across the greenery.Koel winds around her feet, his eyes locked adoringly upon her forever more. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I only realize that I’ve begun to laugh when the blood spills over my lip and down my chin.I’m shaking.I notice it absently, like it’s happening to someone else and not me.I reach for the pin in my pocket.My fingers tremble as they grip it, so much so that it takes me several attempts before I succeed.Finally, finally, I get it right, and I plunge the point directly into the pad of my thumb.I barely feel the sting of it.The relief it brings is small, but it is enough. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It has to be.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Another Oddity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first time since arriving in Soliss, I feel truly lonely.Everything is strange — awkward, uncomfortable, like walking around in a pair of shoes that used to fit.It’s the familiarity that makes the discomfort all the more unsettling.It’s a constant reminder that things have grown different without my awareness or approval.Things that once fit smoothly now chafe, pinching at me, hounding my extremities, leaving blisters as punishment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something has happened between Caederyn and Feon and neither of them will speak of it.I knew when I saw Caederyn chasing after his dragon that <em>something</em> would happen and I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they would take the opportunity provided to communicate with one another.Whatever happened, it seems to have only made things worse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They spend time together — when they must — but it is stiff, stilted.Feon keeps quiet, his posture rigid, his teeth gritted tightly together.I don’t know if he does it intentionally, but seeing him like this, I can see an echo of Caederyn in his stance, his tension, in the sullen curve of his mouth.He ignores Caederyn as best he is able, though he’s not particularly good at being subtle about it.For his part, Caederyn seems to have grown resigned to the situation.He looks constantly exhausted and overwhelmed and somehow even more somber than usual.Sometimes I catch him staring forlornly at Feon when he thinks he can get away with it.It is a deeply painful thing to see.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And neither of them will talk to me about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’ve tried — oh, Laws, I’ve tried!When I bring it up with Caederyn, he looks sad and awkward and grows immediately distant.He retreats emotionally and then, as soon as he is able, he makes some excuse about having duties to attend to and then he retreats physically as well.Feon is more direct about his displeasure.The last time I suggested he speak with Caederyn, he bit me, and not in a sexy way.I sent him away in a huff and he only looked mildly penitent.Eventually he returned and sort of half apologized, but even then he still refused to make any effort towards resolution.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are both so deeply hurt and they only seem intent upon furthering it.It’s incredibly aggravating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea has been strange as well.I apologized to her at the first opportunity — I know I was callous towards her and I regret it deeply — and she of course accepted my apology with her usual dramatic flair.But despite this, things seem different between us.There is a half-second hesitation in her usual lackadaisical airs, an uneasy self-awareness in the performance of her melodrama.I’ve always known Lysithea’s flamboyance to be in some parts natural and in others an act, an opera of one.I’ve never before seen the lines between her innate nature and her artifice drawn so distinctly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first time, I begin to wonder why she is here — why she has arrived so early before the wedding and why, why, has she stayed?Before arriving in Soliss I knew academically that she was not welcome here, but I thought it to be the sort of “not welcome” of an unpleasant guest overstaying their invitation — an annoyance, an inconvenience, but no more than that.In Nadara, Lysithea and her parent are not seen as exhausting or bothersome.They are outright hated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I see it in the wary eyes that track the Ballards’ movements anywhere they go, in the sudden stiffening of the Nadarans they speak with, the instantaneous shuttering of any display of vulnerability.It is the resentful hatred of the hunted, of shrews amongst a viper, of people either too polite or too afraid to openly confront their Larish guests.Halwynn Ballard doesn’t seem to mind.If anything, they seem to revel in it, taking pleasure in spreading unease. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m not certain about Lysithea.Some of the young ladies — those she has most closely interacted with — seem to have grown more comfortable in her presence.At the very least, Lady Cecily and Lady Alyssum seem almost entirely unbothered by her.It was in part due to this that I decided to bring them into my circle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps I’d feel less troubled if I had something more to <em>do</em> with myself during this time, some form of distraction, but as it stands I cannot effectively further my research until we get ahold of an expert with the necessary knowledge.There are several false starts — a number of nearby scholars the King summons to the castle, one after the other.I dismiss them each with mounting frustration as they fail to meet even the lowest of my standards.I await further news from my connections. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a lot of nothing — acquaintances who see the problem as outside their field or who take my vague information and run with it in an entirely irrelevant direction.I spend much time and no small amount of pigeon paper interfacing with friends, then friends of friends, and so on, casting my net ever wider.I use the siphon quill gifted to me by Arcanist Ebner to pen her a brief entreaty; I watch as the self perpetuating luminescent ink dries and fades away to nothingness, leaving only grooves in the paper as my words transfer into the pages of a book that is hundreds of miles away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I write my letters, I send them, I wait.I’ve never done well with so much spare time on my hands.I find myself listless and impotent and unable to focus.I even get bored — and worried — enough to pen a number of more mundane letters.I write to Lady Emira in response to our most recent correspondence and, keeping the details vague, ask for her advice in resolving the tensions between Caederyn and Feon.I write to my family in Harrogate and then to Cassidy and Dannica specifically.These are not the first letters I have written them since arriving in Nadara, but they are certainly the longest.I miss them all terribly and now more than ever.I’d never realized before now just how isolating it is to not have any siblings.Caed must have bore it by necessity.I can hardly stand it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With two mothers, a father, five siblings, a wealth of cousins and uncles and aunts, and no shortage of beloved royal consorts (who are, if not <em>my</em> blood, then at least the blood of my blood), it was impossible for the entirety of my family to be upset with me at once.There was always someone to turn to, to mull over the contention and the pain, to comfort and distract and admonish me in equal measures.I have Fidelity and Clemence beside me still, but even they seem out of sorts recently, and Fidelity particularly so.She’s been sighing and staring forlornly out windows towards the sky, the way she always does when her latest infatuation takes a sour turn.Clemence and I have both attempted to pester her over it in turn, but she remains staunchly and uncharacteristically tight lipped.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It all leaves a sort of helpless bitterness on my tongue.I resolve, immediately, to do anything and everything in my power to not succumb to that same putrefaction of the heart from which my friends and loved ones currently seem to be suffering.So I go about my days with a sort of manic positivity.I will find some way, somehow, to ease this discomfort amongst us, or at the very least I will refuse to add to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I haven’t figured out the how of it yet, and so I start small: selecting little gifts of my favor for Fidelity and Clemence and Lysithea; providing gentle but insistent distractions for Caederyn so that there is more to his day than unending paperwork; at one point I attempt to enlist several servants’ help in organizing the overwhelming jungle of trinkets that is Feon’s chambers, but the moment he finds us out, he looses a diatribe of such odious vitriol that one of the poor girls is reduced to tears.I chastise him readily and leave him alone to sulk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have easier targets to deal with, and so I focus on them first.Caederyn’s woes won’t be permanently eased by short term niceties, but he is at the very least receptive to my attentions and he seems pleased to see me.The unease between us passes somewhere between my first surprise tea break and my return that night to insist that he not work late into the night <em>every</em> night.Though he protests somewhat, my prince comes readily, and he seems to enjoy our time together.At the very least, Jasper seems grateful.He always looks so quietly relieved when I appear to whisk Caederyn away.Though I’ve hardly spoken to him, I think he must be a good man.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Today, I’ve pulled Caederyn away from his work, first for a private lunch, and then for some recreational activities of the intimate variety.We’ve spent much time kissing — both today and previously.He still has yet to invite me to his bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I whisper, breath chased by desire. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m sat in his lap, my legs straddling his hips, my breasts pressed against his chest.Caederyn kisses me sweetly, his hands hiking my skirt up ever higher as he seeks the curves of my thighs.His chest is bared, his naked skin marked by goosebumps and scars.The wound on his shoulder has faded to an echo, the scar paled as if it has been months rather than weeks since its conception.He is steady beneath me, a firm presence and a gentle warmth.And some parts of him are firmer than others.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I repeat, murmuring the words into his lips as a grin threatens to overtake me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm..?” he responds, distracted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’re situated in my workroom, both crowded into a single plush armchair, the taste of chilled raspberry tea lingering on our lips.It’s a warm day, bright and clear, the sort of day that threatens the inevitable arrival of summer.There is a faint sheen of sweat down the bridge of Caederyn’s nose.I kiss it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wrap my arms around his neck and pull in close to him, as close as I am able.Our contact pulls the draped front of my dress lower, revealing the swell of my breasts.Knowing what it does to him, I encourage it.I hear his sharp intake of breath and I take the opportunity to lick into his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d really like,” I begin, punctuating my words by grinding my hips down into him, my voice going taut with friction, “To touch you more.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can feel how hard Caederyn is, how much he wants me.His cock strains against the confines of his trousers, pressing wantonly into the curve of my ass.My cunt aches at the lack of him.I want desperately to know his shape, to have him map my dimensions intimately, to reach that place where the lines between us will blur.He is so damnably beautiful with those soft, dark eyes: cautious, but yielding, like I’m the shaky ground he’s decided to put his faith in.I want to set those eyes ablaze, to send him tumbling into an avalanche of feeling.I also really, really want a good dicking down.I just wish I thought he was ready for that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I kiss his mouth, his jaw, his throat.His beard hair rasps against my skin.I murmur in his ear: “I’d really like to get my mouth on you, Caed.”Beneath me, he shudders.His fingers dig into my ass.“Would you like that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sound that leaves his throat is something dry and desperate, more a croak than a word.He wets his lips.He tries again.“Y-yes,” he stammers, voice catching.“Sun above, <em>yes.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I let out a pleased laugh and press a wet kiss to his cheek.His laughter leaves him in a surprised huff of air, half embarrassed, half gratified.I grin back at him and plant one last, loud kiss on his lips before I wiggle my hips and start shimmying indelicately down his body.It’s <em>very</em> sexy.Caederyn throws his head back into the chair’s cushion and plants the heels of his hands in his eyes, more laughter bubbling from his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are going to be the death of me,” Caederyn says, his voice almost a wheeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My knees settle in the thick rug that decorates this side of the work room.I’m grateful for its placement, I don’t much like the idea of kneeling directly on the stone floor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I certainly <em>hope</em> not,” I reply mildly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s legs part easily for me.I place my hands on his knees and slide my fingers slowly up the length of his thighs.My right hand finds the bulge where his cock sits, swollen, struggling against the constricting fabric.I squeeze.He makes a muffled sound high in his register.I kiss his knee.My lips travel up the seam of his trousers and to his inner thigh.When I reach midway, I stop and glance up at him.He’s watching me through his fingers, which are splayed wide over his dark eyes, his palms pressed to his reddened cheeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I purr.“I’m going to need you to scoot your ass further down this chair.”I thumb at the head of his bulge for emphasis.He sucks in a sharp breath and complies with neither protest nor delay.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smiling smugly, I trail my fingers up the fabric of his trousers until they find the smooth curves of his buttons.I undo them one by one with careful deliberation.His eyes are rapt upon me.His chest stills.He seems caught on a breath, suspended between one moment and the next, his body taut with anticipation.I am, for the moment, the single most important facet of his world.I revel in it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I draw down his trousers with care.His cock tents the loose cotton of his smalls, wetting the white fabric where it meets the tip.I handle these undergarments as well, sliding them lower and lower, dragging the waistband painfully slowly down the length of him until the tension surpasses the traction and his dick eagerly springs free, like the first green leaf sprouted from a seed or like a lever turned accidentally into a catapult by the application of undue force.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn exhales a faint hiss.“I-is that wholly necessary?” he asks, embarrassed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is what wholly necessary?” I ask, not entirely paying attention.I reach forward and find the stretch of skin where stomach turns to pelvis.My palm rests against his dark pubic hair, which has been trimmed near as neatly as his short beard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s face goes pink.“You seem to be very intent on taking your time.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’d think him rude if I didn’t know it was nervousness, rather than impatience, that spurred his words.So I grin and say:“I don’t know if it is wholly necessary, but I am certainly enjoying it.”My palm slides lower, lower, and I relish the soft gasp he yields when I take him in hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His cock is hot against my fingers, already hard and flushed and leaking.I delicately ease the foreskin down below the glistening head, my thumb running along the tender underside.Caederyn shifts beneath me.He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands — or any part of himself, for that matter.After what seems to be a long and harried moment of deliberation, his hands settle on the chair’s arms.I smile and open my mouth to take him in at the head and suck, hard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sound Caederyn makes is deliciously distraught, though he attempts to stifle it.It sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.The taste of him is salty and bitter and foreign, but not wholly unpleasant.I take him further still and he exhales a whispered oath, his hips jerking slightly, pushing the head of his dick against the roof of my mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hands grip the armchair, white knuckled, his bottom lip held fast under glistening teeth.My lips stretch wide around him, mouth pulled taut as I sink down until my lips meet the curl of my fingers where they grip him at the base.Caederyn wheezes like he’s had all the air punched out of him.I sink down as far as I can, ’til his cock tickles the back of my throat, ’til the burn of it prickles at my eyes.I work him calmly and slowly, never once betraying the growing tension in my throat or the aching heat between my thighs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I can bear it no longer, I pull off him with an obscenely wet <em>pop,</em> my teeth gently scraping the underside of his cock as I go, spit and precum mingled on my lips.Caederyn makes a muffled sort of whimper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can touch me, you know,” I say conversationally, as if nothing at all interesting is happening right now.I almost manage it, save for the faint rasp of my voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stares down at me, his face flushed, his lip chewed bright red and raw.The browns of his eyes are near entirely eclipsed by hungry black pupils.I stroke his cock languidly, never once breaking eye contact as my palm twists over the head in one easy, wet movement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” Caederyn gasps, trembling beneath me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks a mess, no longer a dignified prince, but a man distilled down to his basest parts.His brow is shiny with perspiration, his wavy brown hair hanging damply in his face.His chest shudders with labored breathing, like an animal stalled out and too tired to flee the hunt, shaken and wild and no longer running, but not still, never still.I grin and bend my neck to lick down the length of him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene, <em>please.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I tongue the slit, mouthing over the sensitive skin until he is sloppy and twitching and wet.My hand moves slowly in long, lazy strokes as I prepare to take him in again.My lips part over the tip and slide down to encompass the flushed head of his cock.With no more warning than a choked gasp, Caederyn goes taut, a trip wire activated, and he spills hot and bitter down my tongue.I ease him through it, ringing him out like a wet rag until his cock stills, spent and going soft. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s breathing is ragged, his chest expanding and deflating rapidly as he sucks air into his lungs and sends it, shuddering, out again.I rise to my feet, only noticing the ache in my knees when my legs have a momentary crisis of faith about whether or not they’d like to function properly.After an ungainly moment, my legs hold, and I bend forward until I’m able to bring my lips to meet Caederyn’s.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He seems wholly unprepared for the kiss.His eyes are wide with wonder and it takes him a moment to remember to close them.I kiss him, gently and thoroughly, until the taste of him is a memory on my tongue, chased away by the sweetness of his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After several minutes of this, during which I have decided it prudent to climb back into his lap, Caederyn breaks away from my mouth.“Allene,” he rasps.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile back at him beatifically.“What is it, Caederyn?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hands find the sides of my face.His fingers are gentle, tentative, as if afraid the calloused skin will be too rough against my cheeks.I lean into his touch and sigh.He opens his mouth.Pauses.Wets his lips.His dark eyes flicker up to meet mine.He looks nervous, but determined.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you’d like,” he says, seeming to choose the words carefully.“I’d like it.I’d like.I’d like to return the favor.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, pleasantly surprised.“Would you now?”Caederyn’s eyes have gone all wide and nervous.I laugh gently and kiss him on the lips.When I draw away, I say,“I think I could make time in my schedule for that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time when I slide off his lap, I stand.I take his hands in mine and pull him to his feet after me.As I shimmy my drawers down my legs, Caederyn tucks himself back into his trousers and sets himself to rights.I step out of my drawers and settle myself back down into the armchair, this time with no prince beneath me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How would you like me?” I ask, reclining.I slowly slide down the seat of the chair and let my knees spread apart.Caederyn watches, transfixed.My stomach stretches out below me, soft and full and comfortable.After a moment, I kick one leg up and drape it over one of the chair’s arms.I grin back at him and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.“How’s that?Better?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn makes a sort of wheezing sound, almost a laugh, and most of the tension drains from his body.He slumps on an exhale and then, slowly, lowers himself to his knees.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are ridiculous,” he says fondly.He leans forward and places a hand on my thigh.My skirt still obscures most of my legs, but there is enough shin exposed to show a small stretch of my stockings.Caederyn bows forward and presses his forehead against my knee.“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reach out and run a hand through his silky brown hair.“I just want to make you comfortable,” I reply, smiling.“I mean, I also want to get off, but that’s not your responsibility.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s shoulders jerk with repressed, silent laughter.“Thank you..?” he replies, his voice ticking up questioningly at the end.“I think…?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shifts against me, tilting his head up until he can look me in the eye.I run my hand down from his scalp to cup the side of his face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I… wanted to make sure you knew.”I smile and shrug.“Just in case.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn holds my gaze, his expression turning suddenly serious.Slowly, he nods.He turns his face and presses a kiss to the palm of my hand.He is so painfully earnest sometimes I feel my heart may burst with fondness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then his hands find the hem of my dress and lift it up, up.He presses a kiss to my stockinged knee.He slides my skirt back past the silk garter tied in a bow just above my knee, past my thighs, past the hem of my chemise.This, too, he lifts and smooths back, until I am reclined before him, bared to the hips, one leg thrown casually over the arm of the chair.My heart rate rises as anticipation pools warmly in my gut.My pulse thrums through me from my head to my toes; it throbs longingly in my clit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s lips travel up my skin, leaving a trail of kisses from my knee to the upper reaches of my inner thigh.Here, he stops, his hands moving to either side of my hips as he hovers over me, his breath ghosting hot and nervous over my cunt.I’m already extremely wet.I’ve always loved making others feel good, making them feel special and wanted and beautiful.To see my face as the one shining in their over bright eyes, to instill within them that lustful wonder.My thighs are slick with the evidence of that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn presses another kiss to my inner thigh and his lips come away glistening.When next he returns, it is to lick a stripe along the skin there.The edge of his tongue skirts the perimeter of my labia.I shiver in anticipation.He moves slowly, shyly, his eyes downcast as he shifts closer, closer.His tongue finds me hot and wet.He’s tentative at first — the point of his tongue skirting the folds of my labia.I make a sound of encouragement and he presses deeper, questing until the tip of his tongue finds my clit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hnnn!”He glances up at me as I make the sound, sharp and breathy.I nod for him to keep going and he lowers his eyes and sinks back into me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s clumsy at first, finding my clit and losing it several times.Little pricks of pleasure find me and lose me, leaving me pent up and a little frustrated.I try to be patient.I thread my fingers through his hair and tug gently, directing him as needed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There,” I say, flexing my hips just a tad upwards to get him in the right spot.He follows obediently, redoubling his efforts when he can tell he’s got it right.“Mmmm.”He glances up at me and I hold his gaze.He looks good like that — red faced and buried in my pussy, his chin drenched, his eyes glassy and over bright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn breaks for air.He rises and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.I don’t think he realizes how devastatingly hot he looks.“Am I — is it — am I doing okay?” he asks.I can hear the nervous flutter of his heartbeat in his voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this your first time?” I ask gently.“Eating pussy, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goes rigid for a moment, then slumps, his gazing dropping from mine.“Yes,” he says, shame faced.“Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move my hand to his chin and lean in close — or at least as close as I’m able in this position.After a moment’s hesitation, he begrudgingly meets my eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry, dear one,” I say, smiling.“You’re doing just fine.”Caederyn frowns back at me, that little divot of worry forming right in the center of his forehead.I laugh and gently press my thumb to it until it smooths away.“Anyway, I’d be more than happy to teach you how to eat me out,” I continue, letting my voice fall to a purr.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn blanches.“Allene—” he begins, spluttering.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you like that?” I ask, low and throaty. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hand trails lazily down his face, brushing his jawline, cupping his cheek.My thumb finds the curve of his lower lip.It’s still a vivid red from when he was biting it to hell and back while I sucked him off.I smooth over it gently with the pad of my thumb.Caederyn stares back up at me as if mesmerized. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you like me to teach you, Caed?”I wait several moments.When he remains slack jawed and quiet, I continue.“I’m going to need you to give me a yes or a no,” I say patiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At long last, he nods, his eyes gone all wide and dopey.“Y-yes,” he stammers, his voice a breathy shell of its usual timbre.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile.“Good.”I pat his cheek.“Then I’m going to need that pretty mouth of yours back where it belongs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Air hisses violently between his teeth.He looks a mess, so thoroughly stupefied and undone.Taking pity on him, I wind my fingers back into his hair and pull him gently forward.He goes eagerly.I direct him with care.When he finds my clit again, I smile and let out an approving sigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, there,” I tell him, pleased.Caederyn’s hands move to grip my hips and he sinks further into me.His chin presses down the line of my pussy.“Broaden your tongue.Lay it flat.Good.”He complies quickly, responding to each and every one of my directions.Hot air hisses noisily out of his nose and over my mons. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed, dear, I want you to use your lips.Use your mouth as a whole.I want you to suck my clit — not too hard, start gently and work from there.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch him as he works diligently at my behest, settling slowly until he is practically engulfed in the hot folds of my pussy.The more I direct him, the more he seems to enjoy it.His eyes have fallen shut, those long dark lashes standing out stark against his pale skin like washed up kelp on a white sand beach.He sucks noisily on my clit, all his nerves seemingly forgotten.I moan and he answers me, a low groan rumbling through his throat, down his tongue, and into me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good,” I gasp out.My fingers convulse, gripping his hair tightly.“Fuck.”His eyes flicker open and he glances up at me somewhat shyly.The sight of him sweat drenched and buried in my pussy is more delicious than he will ever know.“You’re doing great, babe,” I say, my voice going taut.“Fuck.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m getting close, I can tell.The way his tongue moves with the suction and the faint reverberations as he moans into my skin — it’s doing it for me.It really is.But I’m not quite there yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want your fingers,” I tell him.“I want them inside of me — start with one.”Caederyn starts to pull back but I stop him with the hand I have clenched in his hair, tugging him close.“No,” I breathe, almost laughing.“Don’t you dare fucking stop.”This time when his gaze catches mine, there is real heat there.I grin back at him, sweat faced and hungry for climax.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes him a few moments to work out the angle, to figure out how to position himself so that he can keep his mouth on my clit but leave room for his fingers to find my pussy.He has to rise up slightly to manage it and it looks a little awkward, but he doesn’t complain.Soon, he is sliding one finger against my wet folds, venturing deeper and deeper until his finger is sunk in to the knuckle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmmm,” I say with feeling.His mouth has lapsed in its ministrations, so I tighten my grip slightly in his hair, and he obediently resumes his efforts.All the while, his finger moves, questing about like he’s looking for buried treasure.“Add another,” I say, sharp enough to almost be an order.As his finger slides out, it brushes against the sensitive cluster of nerves on my inner wall.My thighs convulse, squeezing tight around his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn doesn’t protest and he doesn’t stop.His finger returns, and there’s two of them now.He has such long, beautiful fingers — I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered at the feel of them before this moment.I find I am not disappointed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck.Harder.Yes — that — right there!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m aching with it, the tension building in my body as his tongue and lips and fingers all work in concert.My head falls back into the soft cushions of the armchair and my back arches. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I moan, high and rasping.I pull his head tight against me, my fingers fisted in his hair, and I rut into him, trying to fuck his mouth and his hand at the same time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s grip on my ass tightens, his fingers sinking deep into my flesh, drawing lines of tension down my skin.With his other hand, he adds a third finger, and he curls them inside me without hesitation.His mouth upon me is rapturous, devotion writ in lips and tongue and teeth — teeth!I cannot tell if he does it on purpose or on accident, but it doesn’t fucking matter.His tongue slips away and his teeth graze over my throbbing clit and I am gone, utterly undone, as full of him as he is of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I come, shaking and shuddering, filled with his fingers, my thighs clamped blissfully around his head, squishing his ears, a fistful of his hair pulled taut by my hand.It slams through me, a wall of force that sucker punches me right in the gut and leaves me winded and weak.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I slump back into the armchair, my whole body going limp, my legs falling open around Caederyn’s red, red face.Slowly, carefully, he withdraws his fingers.Still, I shudder.He presses a kiss to my clit, my labia, my inner thigh.I loose a low, helpless giggle and slowly release his hair and let my arm flop wherever it may.Now that it’s no longer held in a tight fist, my hand aches with the spent tension, unused to this sudden new freedom.I shake it out slowly and then let it fall back down onto the cushions.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn remains kneeling, his bottom lip caught under his teeth, his dark eyes staring back up at me as if awaiting something.The bottom half of his face is glistening and after a moment he wipes at it absently with the back of his hand.I smile languidly back at him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come here, you,” I murmur, barely bothering to open my mouth.I feel giddy and alive and completely drained all at once.It’s fantastic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn rises slowly.He presses one knee into the chair’s cushion and leans down carefully.With a monumental feat of effort, I lift my arms and wind them around his neck and draw him down into me for a kiss.He comes slowly, almost cautiously, and I don’t realize why until at last he gives in and settles against me and I feel the pressure of his erection against my hip.I nip at his lips lazily.He tastes like good pussy — wet and humid and musky and sweet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you like that, babe?” I ask him.He turns his head away to bury his face in my neck.I laugh, low and sweet, and speak into his ear.“Did eating me out get you hot?”I let my words rasp out, making certain to breathe warm and heavy over the shell of his ear.“Did you like being told what to do?Being told what I wanted?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s shoulders tense against me.After a moment, he nods, his nose rubbing into the crook of my neck.I laugh and press a kiss to his cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s good to know,” I say, very pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Slowly and with more effort than I would like to admit, I raise one of my weary legs and wrap it around his hips.I rut up into him, spreading my wetness and heat down the front of his trousers as I press our bodies together.Caederyn shudders and releases a stifled gasp of a moan.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go on,” I breathe.“It’s alright.You’ve earned it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I didn’t mean it seriously.I meant to tease him, to ease his nerves with a joke — but at those words, his shoulders relax slightly, and he takes a deep breath.I feel it in the slow and steady expansion of his chest, in the gust of air as he inhales against my neck.Then he starts to move, anxiety and desperation and relief sending his hips into short, shuddering, sharp thrusts against me.I press gentle kisses to his hair, his ear, his neck, all the while whispering words of encouragement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It doesn’t take him long to finish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After several long minutes of exhausted, wordless cuddling, during which I nod off no less than three times, something that’s been bugging me finally seems to settle in my mind, and so I speak up: “Caederyn,” I begin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He still has his face buried into the crook of my neck.His breathing has slowed to the point where I can’t tell if he has fallen asleep or has just gone entirely boneless.“Mmmm,” he replies, his lips vibrating faintly against my skin.Just boneless, then.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve been thinking about something.There is something we used to do at Whithelm Castle, not exactly often, but regularly enough that it was tradition.A sort of — unity picnic.”Caederyn huffs a breath into my neck.I can’t see his expression but I expect he is smiling.“Everyone who wished to would gather together on the lawn and enjoy the weather, and simple foods, and conversation — the royal bloodline, the consorts, the nobility, the gentry, the staff, the servants, anyone in the castle who wished to attend could do so.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn shifts atop me.With a groan, he peels himself up and off of me so that he can look me in the eye.We are both stiff with spent energy and dried sweat and it is not altogether very pleasant. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If the servants attended the picnic, then who sets up the meal?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.It’s not a thing I had thought of before.“Well, it’s a relatively simple function, I imagine after making the preparations, they’d have ample time to join us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the guards?Do they join?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.Well — some of them.Perhaps they take it in shifts.”I find myself feeling a tad defensive.It’s a lovely and wonderful tradition and I don’t know why he can’t just see it for that!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the cleaning — who does that?”His tone is mild, patient, and somehow I find that all the more annoying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose the servants do that <em>after</em> the picnic,” I concede, scowling.“Listen, I don’t understand why you are being so difficult about this!Perhaps it does not achieve <em>perfect </em>unity, but it is still a boon to the community, and an event that is highly anticipated for weeks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re having a tournament in your honor very soon,” Caederyn points out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not for two weeks,” I reply dismissively.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Which is more than the amount of time required to organize something of the scale you are proposing.”Caederyn is looking down at me assessingly, his eyes gentle and unusually calm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes — well — perhaps we could… perhaps we could do something not <em>quite</em> so grand, then — not the entire palace, but our people.Our friends and staff and servants.I think it would be nice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And it would give you something to do,” he replies.“A new distraction while you await news on the matter of the dagger.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I exhale a sigh and flick Caederyn gently on the nose.“Who gave you the right to be so perceptive all of a sudden?” I ask, at once annoyed and fond.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn smiles back at me.“As much as I appreciate all the time we’ve been spending together recently, I know that right now, I’m your new project.”He sits up the rest of the way, his movements slow and stiff.He’s still caught between my legs, his torso twisted so that he can meet my eyes.“And that you are entirely allergic to idleness.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How dare you get to know me!” I reply with mock scorn.I manage to hold a stern expression for all of two seconds before I break down in a fit of helpless giggles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll think further on the... the ‘unity picnic,’ as you put it, later.It will take a feat of scheduling to host an event that will truly provide everyone the opportunity to join.Perhaps if the food were catered, or if it were a communal meal, luck of the pot, where everyone in attendance was asked to bring some small food stuff to contribute to the larger whole…”Caederyn lapses into silence for a moment before shaking his head.“Anyway, I think we could arrange something smaller — a casual pre-celebration for the tournament.We could arrange for some of the guard, those wishing to compete, and a number of the associated staff and servants to all convene… I think that would be manageable in a week or so, if it were relatively small.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That sounds lovely,” I reply, beaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn laughs and says, “I’ll let you head the project.You certainly seem to need something to do.”I roll my eyes and gently bat him on the arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn is right — I do need something to do and this fills that void.With my mind full of preparations, I have less time to dwell impatiently on the matter of the dagger.Even extracurricular research hasn’t been much solace — I’m so thoroughly consumed by my curiosity over the dagger that my brain refuses to stray from it for long enough to get much other thinking in.But planning a party — that I can do easily.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Several days later, I receive a reply from Arcanist Ebner.It has taken her longer than anticipated — or rather, longer than I’d hoped.She is somewhat irregular with her correspondence, sometimes pulling an answer seemingly from thin air quicker than I can draw breath, other times spending weeks in silence before finally positing a lengthy potential solution in one fell swoop.Regardless, I am always grateful, and it is always her word that I am most eager to receive.I had had hopes — albeit slowly dwindling ones — that my other contacts would prove fruitful, but I always knew that if anyone were able to aid me, like as not it would be her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I know the letter to be hers the moment I see it.It finds me in the midst of going over arrangements with Clemence and Fidelity and Sir Sieglinde and a number of the senior serving staff.For some reason, Feon has decided to tag along as well, though he looks rather bored doing it.He’s also chosen rather enigmatically to assume his guise as Lady Fae.I had assumed, once Caederyn caught him, that he’d stop, but strangely it has only seemed to inspire him to spend even more of his time shifted to his feminine persona.I’m not quite certain what to make of that information just yet, but I file it away for later examination.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We’re gathered in my chambers going over the finer elements of the impending gathering, when a flash of something white blue and vibrant darts in through the open window with a loud, high pitched whistling sound.Instinctively, I drop the papers in my hands and reach out towards it.It flies in an arc, fizzing and sputtering, its pitch and elevation dropping in unison, until it falls into my hands on the end of a dying shriek.The moment it hits my skin, it gives a loud <em>pop</em> and promptly explodes into a tiny shower of warm sparks as the center of its form fizzles out and shrivels into a tiny cylinder of rolled parchment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity and Clemence, already used to such things, don’t have much in the way of a reaction, but I heard someone amongst the Nadarans loose a terrified shriek and Sir Sieglinde is on her feet and halfway across the room before she sees that I am utterly unharmed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Fidelity exclaims softly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Both Sir Sieglinde and I pivot in unison to see that one of the serving staff has clean away fainted.She’s collapsed limply in the arms of a beleaguered looking servant.Beside them, Feon stands, frozen mid-stride, his eyes wide, his mouth puckered in a tiny “oh.”The moment I look at him, he straightens, his freckled cheeks turning rosy.I don’t have time to linger on this.Sir Sieglinde rushes to the woman’s aid.She takes her in arm, picking her up with no more effort than it would take to hoist a kitten.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll take her to the infirmary,” the guard says with reassuring firmness.“Provided you’re alright, of course, my lady?”She nods to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, of course, please go,” I reply quickly.“The sparks don’t do any harm, they just tickle a bit.”I wave my hands before me for emphasis, showing them to be unscathed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde nods and turns to the door.With the slow inevitability of an oncoming storm, my gaze slides back on to Feon.He stands there, red faced and awkward, his arms hugged to himself, his head tilted forward so that his long hair partially obscures his expression.It’s not anywhere near effective.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smiling to myself, I remove a small folding knife from my pocket and use it to break the seal on the parchment.It unravels immediately at its own behest, and as it does so, the paper expands until it is the size of a normal letter.The message is brief and penned with uncanny consistency, a feature of the arcanist’s magical dictation.It reads:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Your Venerable Ladyship,</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>I have assessed the issue regarding your linguistic conundrum.This is not my particular area of expertise, but at your behest I have contacted a colleague, Kerr Gooden, who I believe will be of assistance.He should be passing through Soliss in a week or two and I have requested he make the detour to assist you.Have payment and accommodations prepared.He is less an arcanist than an undiluted academic, but I believe him fully capable in this regard.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Your Humble Servant,</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Arcanist Rook Ebner, Adept of the Thorn, Executor and Practitioner of the Briar Laws, Principal Arcanist to the Voswainian Council and Royal Family</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Excitement ripples through me — excitement and relief.If Arcanist Ebner believes so strongly in the merits of this colleague of hers, then I see no reason not to put my faith in him.A giddy smile spreads across my face, cheek-achingly wide and irrepressible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I look up from the letter, I find everyone staring at me.Not wanting to say too much in front of the servants, I give a quick thumbs up and say, “It seems we shall be hosting a guest some time within the next fortnight.” </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The morning of the picnic dawns with an open sky.It’s lovely, at first.It’s the sort of morning made for flying kites: bright and blue with just enough of a breeze to wick away the sun’s heat.It doesn’t last.By the time noon arrives, it is decidedly warm out — much more so than I’m used to, even this close to summer.In the span of only a few days, the weather has gone from pleasantly warm to decidedly uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">None of the Nadarans seem to mind it.Oh, they make accommodations, of course: they change out their heavier garb for light, airy pieces of clothing made from linen and cotton and fine silks; they busy themselves erecting canopies on the lawn in preparation for our picnic; they replace their hot teas with chilled ones; ice is harvested and transported and carefully stockpiled.Still, it’s a little infuriating to feel as if I am the only one grievously suffering in the face of an impending summer that promises to be absolute hell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s rather warm today, isn’t it,” I remark, slightly winded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re lucky,” Caederyn says as he watches me wipe sweat from my brow.We’re sat together under a wide canopy, several large blankets laid out beneath us, the sweat on my neck still fresh from our short walk from the palace to the lawn.He gestures out past our canopy and all the people sat beneath it, out towards the grounds as a whole.“With all the trees around us and with the elevation from the hill, the weather is kinder here.It’s much worse in the valley.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare at him slack jawed.In marrying Caederyn I hadn’t realized that I was condemning myself to a life of suffering in this blasted heat.And this — this isn’t even fully summer yet.Perhaps I can find some arcane means of cooling the grounds so that the weather does not melt me alive.It could be possible.However, that doesn’t at all help me in the present.I may well perish today and all because I got a little restless while waiting on some news.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Taking pity on me, Caederyn pours me a glass of tea and hands it to me.It’s deliciously cold to the touch and I inhale it greedily.“You’ll have less trouble once your new wardrobe is complete.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hum noncommittally as I drain the glass.Caederyn smiles and pours me another.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry I didn’t think to request to have it made sooner — I forgot how different our seasons are and that you might not be equipped for a Nadaran summer.”His voice is soft, apologetic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s alright,” I reply, finally surfacing from my cup.I wave a hand at him dismissively.“I’ll survive.Probably.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The onus falls upon us, Your Grace,” Clemence says smoothly.She takes the pitcher of tea from Caederyn and pours cups for both herself and Fidelity.She sits straight backed beside me, her skirts tucked neatly beneath her.She seems composed as ever despite being dressed entirely in black.The only hint of her discomfort is the small bead of sweat slowly rolling down the bridge of her nose.“As the princess’ closet falls under our purview, Fidelity and I ought to have thought of this sooner.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Clemence, don’t be so serious, it’s much too hot,” Fidelity grouses.Her coppery hair is bound up in a messy ponytail at the back of her head.Little tendrils have escaped all around her face and a good number of them are slicked to her skin by sweat.She snaps open a fan and flaps it despairingly towards her own face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My lord, my lady,” calls a cheery voice, “I’ve got it!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s Sir Sieglinde, jaunting towards us bearing a massive platter topped high with all manner of food stuffs.She carries it with ease, as if it weighs no more than a kitten.Her face is bright red and glistening with sweat, but despite her thick uniform, she seems otherwise unbothered.She sets the overflowing tray down on one of the long tables set beside our blanket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Sir Sieglinde,” I reply, smiling.“I’m so sorry to send you out at the last moment, but I wasn’t certain there was enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde’s face breaks out into her perpetually good natured grin and she gives me a thumbs up before she begins to fill a plate for herself.“Not a problem, not a problem at all, Your Grace.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She ducks under the canopy, plate in hand, and picks her way delicately across the picnic blanket, weaving through the seated guests with practiced care.People shift readily out of her way, tucking in hands and feet and picking up plates and cups to ease her passage.They make space for her and after a few “excuse me’s” and “pardon me’s” she takes the newly widened spot between Feon and Captain Elske.Even sitting, she eclipses all those around her, sticking out like a solitary mountain on the horizon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon is seated with Fidelity at his other side.He’s in his usual guise, his short golden hair glinting even in the canopy’s shade.His tunic is high necked and sleeveless.With his arms bared, I can see the deep red of the wings of his Bond mark, jagged slashes just below the curves of his shoulders.He has a small plate of food in his lap, which he picks at disinterestedly.It’s strange to see him seated anywhere other than beside Caederyn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The picnic’s seating is informal, so ostensibly Feon’s choice to sit separate from Caederyn could be mere happenstance, but I know better than that.Feon sits just close enough to be in Caederyn’s orbit, but not close enough to give the prince any hope that there can be peace between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn and I are in the center of the canopy surrounded primarily by our people and our personal guards: Clemence, Fidelity, Feon, Lady Alyssum, Lady Cecily, Jasper, Sir Sieglinde, Captain Elske, Connor, and Brennard.I invited Hazley as well, but they declined politely.I haven’t seen them today; I presume they took the day off.Further afield, we are joined by a handful of servants and members of staff, those ones who regularly serve us.They seem happy enough, if a bit awkward.They’ll get over it eventually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Was Lady Fae not able to make it?” Fidelity asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Most, if not all, of the guests have arrived by this point.Beside her, Feon stiffens and suddenly becomes very interested in his cup of tea.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, sadly, she took ill,” I reply, sighing artfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Fidelity says unhappily.“I’m sorry to hear that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t we put together a gift for her?Something nice?” I ask, a slow smile creeping on to my lips.I keep my eyes on Fidelity, but hold Feon in my periphery.He chances a glance upwards in my direction to glare at me.I ignore him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity brightens immediately.“That sounds really lovely,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence <em>hmmms</em> pointedly and takes a minute bite of her tiny cucumber sandwich.I eye her, brow raised, until she glances up and meets my gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is something the matter, Princess?” she asks serenely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile beatifically back at her.“You know, I was just about to ask you the same thing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence pauses a moment, takes a sip of her tea, sets the cup down.Every movement, every pause feels intentional.“I wonder,” she says finally, her tone kept carefully light, “if perhaps Lady Fae is somewhat sickly.She does seem to disappear frequently.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Just feet away from Clemence, Feon begins to turn a very interesting shade of red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I say sadly, “she has confided in me that she has something of a weak constitution that is often exacerbated by the heat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Cecily breaks away from her current conversation with a beleaguered looking Jasper to lean over and pipe in.“Is it a heat rash?” she asks sympathetically.“My cousin gets them — horribly uncomfortable, sometimes the sun gets into his skin and it turns all red and scaly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes me a moment to carefully compose my face into one appropriate for the conversation.“Yes, I think you may be right,” I reply, pressing my lips together and hoping no one can tell I’m suppressing laughter.“I do remember her saying something to that effect, about her skin growing rough and perhaps somewhat scaly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Cecily makes a sort of sad cooing sound and shakes her head, her short brown curls bouncing animatedly.“Oh, poor thing!” she exclaims.“I’ll make sure to write my cousin, then, I’m certain he must have some salve for it, he’s very proactive about such things, very medicinally cultured, you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That is very kind of you,” I reply.“I’m certain Lady Fae would appreciate it immensely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stands up suddenly and stomps away to join the small crowd milling around the long tables of food set beside the canopy.I fall into conversation with Caederyn, but all the while I keep an eye on Feon.Despite already having a full plate he’s seen fit to completely ignore, he takes his time slowly arranging an assemblage of all the tiniest food stuffs he can find, stacking them one by one until his plate is crammed tightly with all manner of minute morsels.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he returns to his spot on the blanket, Sir Sieglinde looks hims over with concern and says, “Feon, are you feeling alright?You’re looking a little red…Have you been in the sun too long?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon snorts derisively and starts picking all the seeds off of a fried sesame ball.“I’m a <em>dragon,”</em> he sneers.“I don’t get sunburnt.”His gaze flicks up to Sir Sieglinde’s face and he gives her a big, tooth-filled grin that is utterly devoid of warmth.“Anyway, shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?You look as if someone’s tried to boil you alive.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde laughs, full bellied and utterly unbothered.“I can’t help it, I’m part lobster,” she replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon lets out a long, very put upon sigh, and looks as if he’s about to say something mean again, when Brennard leans over and interjects himself into the conversation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir Sieglinde,” he says with an inappropriate amount of pomp, “will you be competing in the upcoming tournament?I’ve been training under the assumption that many of the guard, and particularly those in the prince’s guard, would take the opportunity to prove their worth, but Miss Gladhill has informed me that she has chosen to abstain!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He jabs an accusing finger towards where Connor sits, cool as you please, her legs stretched out languidly in front of her.Whereas all the other guards present are dressed in full kit, she has abandoned her uniform in favor of much more casual (and much more revealing) fare.Her bodice is cropped short just below the bust, exposing her midriff.Beneath this, she wears a pair of voluminous draped trousers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Under the many protective layers of the Nadaran guards’ uniform, not much of the body can be seen, so I’d only a vague notion of what she might look like underneath.Upon the revelation of Connor’s form (full breasts, thick stomach, and a set of truly impressive biceps), I think perhaps my suffering through today’s heat was not for nothing after all.No wonder Lysithea was so besotted with her.When she notices the new attention Brennard’s outburst has brought her, she grins and gives a mock solute in my direction.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde looks between the two of them with a sort of helpless bemusement.“I hadn’t decided yet, to be honest,” she admits.She raises a hand to rub nervously at the back of her neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brennard bristles at this, somehow managing to puff out his chest even more than usual.“Sir Sieglinde!” he exclaims, aghast.“I am surprised at you!Never did I think that <em>you</em> of all people would waste an opportunity for self betterment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brennard,” the captain cuts in warningly, “the tournament is entirely extracurricular.One’s desire to participate or abstain is their own prerogative.”Sitting next to Connor, the two make an odd pair, the captain’s rigidity juxtaposed directly with Connor’s unabashed indolence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Brennard replies stiffly.He seems to shrink slightly under his aunt’s strict eye.There’s a hint of a flush in his cheeks and his voice takes on an almost petulant note.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why are you so stuck on this?” Connor asks, amused.“What, are you just that hungry to taste your own blood again?”When she laughs, it makes her tits bounce in a wonderfully distracting way.“Sorry, kid, I don’t work for free and the tournament doesn’t pay unless you win.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you admit it!” Brennard exclaims, his bright teeth gleaming with triumph.“You know I would defeat you in an honorable fight, and so you withdraw before you make a mockery of yourself!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch all this unfold with a sort of quiet amusement mingled with exasperation.I glance to the side and find Caederyn intent on them, his brow creased, a small frown pulling at his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you big, dumb baby,” Connor replies, shaking her head, her words dripping with pity.“Winning a tournament isn’t about being the best or most skilled fighter, it’s about lucking out in your bracket placement and hoping the big dogs take each other out before they get to you.There’s always a bigger fish.Or a bigger dog, I guess.”She waves her hand dismissively, unbothered by her mixed metaphors.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brennard is shaking slightly, his face slowly turning a dull shade of puce.He opens his mouth to retort, but Captain Elske cuts him off before he can.“Brennard,” she says, her voice low and steely.“That’s enough.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She leans forward and grips his forearm, her eyes locked directly on his.He stares back at her, flushed and festering, his breathing coming out in rapid, angry puffs.Slowly, painfully slowly, he deflates, quelled by the captain’s scrutiny.When at last he seems mostly calmed, she releases her grip on his arm and gruffly pats him on the shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s something almost affectionate about it, something private that makes me uncomfortable watching it.Hastily, I clear my throat and say, “Sir Sieglinde, if you don’t mind my asking, is there any particular reason you haven’t decided whether or not you’d like to compete?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde turns my way and the look of abject relief in her face is so palpable it’s almost funny.“Oh, well, I actually think taking part in a tournament would be rather fun,” she says.She hesitates for a moment, her wide face creasing anxiously.She looks down and begins to fidget with the hem of her uniform.“It’s just rather public, isn’t it?” she asks, her voice going uncharacteristically quiet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that a problem?” I ask, surprised.I hadn’t pegged Sir Sieglinde as one to suffer from performance anxiety.After all, she holds a rank of no low esteem and seems to have no issues directing the rest of the guard as needed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” she replies.“Maybe?Maybe not.”She laughs a little, and it’s weird and awkward and pitched too high.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Feon snorts.His plate is a mess — less a meal than a gory bloodbath of viciously deconstructed foods.I watch in horror as he deftly peels the skin off a grape with his fingernails.“You’re part lobster, part bear.All humans will cower before you, blah blah blah, go get ‘em, champ,” he says, sounding supremely bored.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde shoots him a sort of resigned grimace.I swear, that woman’s bones are made of patience.“Yeah,” she says.“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” I say, deciding once again that the air has grown too awkward and that it is my duty to shift the conversation, “I, personally, would love to watch you compete, but I’d be just as happy to sit in on a training session later.”I smile over at Sir Sieglinde and take immense pleasure as I watch her shoulders relax.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” she says.“I’d be happy to set up a round of sparring matches amongst the guards.I’m certain there are others, like Brennard, who’d like the additional practice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After that, things quiet down for a while.Caederyn and Jasper break off into a quiet conversation about the logistics of creating a truly merit based tournament.Feon continues to pick morosely at his food.He looks as if he is having an absolutely horrible time and I think he has only remained here so long out of spite. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence eventually breaks away from Fidelity to kneel beside Captain Elske and start up a conversation — and when Lady Cecily sees this, her eyes nearly bug out of her head from excitement.On the captain’s other side, Connor reclines, looking more relaxed than any human has any right to be.She occasionally pipes in to their conversation, but for the most part she seems perfectly happy to listen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as Feon glances over at Fidelity, who currently looks somewhat at a loss for what to do with herself.He says something too quiet for me to hear over the gentle ambiance of cheerful chatter.Fidelity’s eyes flit back towards him momentarily before she looks resolutely away.She says something short before picking up a cream puff and eating it with painfully exaggerated daintiness.Feon stares at her for several moments before returning to one of his two plates to begin shredding a piece of lettuce into ragged strips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Move,” comes a bored sounding voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance backwards and see Lysithea calmly bullying her way across the blanket.Her silver hair gleams in the sunlight, so bright it forms a halo of light around her.People hastily move out of her way, making a wide berth around her.She stops at the empty spot beside me, the one recently vacated by Clemence, and sits. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Glad to see you saved my seat for me,” she says, smirking.She’s wearing her usual garb: hose and dublet and long sleeves to boot and somehow she looks entirely immune to the day’s heat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good afternoon,” I say, torn between concern and amusement.“I’m so glad that you could join us after all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I had to move a few things around in my schedule,” she says breezily.“I’m <em>very</em> busy, you know.”She leans over Fidelity and casually steals a small bunch of grapes that’s been half picked clean from one of Feon’s plates.She plucks one from the branch and pops it into her mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey!” Feon gripes.He attempts to swat at her hand as she returns to steal a small buttered roll, but she evades him.“Fuck off!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she says remorselessly, “I forgot to get a plate.”She straightens up just in time to avoid Feon as he lunges forward over Fidelity and attempts to reclaim his stolen goods.She glances down at the absolute carnage that is Feon’s “lunch” and says, “Besides, it’s not as if you were eating it anyway.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They bicker endlessly, Feon gnashing his teeth and thoroughly failing to gain any ground as Lysithea toys with him.It’s like watching two children, one of whom has hit their growth spurt early and is relishing their ability to hold something just out of the other’s reach.They almost look like they’re having fun, but that doesn’t make any sense so I banish the thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Feon slips and falls directly into Fidelity’s lap, the contents of his plate spilling down her dress.Until this point, she’s remained entirely silent, frozen, caught in the crossfire between two warring entities.This, finally, is too much.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lord Feon.Lady Lysithea.”Her voice is strangely sharp.Her hands are balled into fists at her sides and her mouth is stretched tight and thin.Her face is a painfully bright shade of red.She looks near tears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon pulls away from her instantly, hastily picking up the assortment of cheeses and crackers and fruits and pastries he so clumsily spilled down her front.There’s not much he can do about the yogurt sauce or the hummus soaking into her dress. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” he blanches.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He starts to brush off Fidelity’s skirt for her, but she stops him, her hand flying forward to grab his wrist.He stills immediately.He doesn’t snap at her or blame her for being in the way or say something unrelated and needlessly mean spirited.Something about that bothers me.Fidelity releases his wrist as if burned and hastily gets to her feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think perhaps this heat is rather too much for me,” she says, red faced and rigid.“I think I should retire for the afternoon.”She directs a stiff curtsy towards myself and Caederyn and promptly flees, leaving the spot between Feon and Lysithea empty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment of silence, Lysithea leans forward again and this time pilfers Feon’s entire plate.He hardly seems to notice.His sits, twisted, his eyes tracking Fidelity’s trajectory across the lawn.Clemence stands and excuses herself politely before following after Fidelity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow, Feon, how did you manage to make even Fidelity upset with you?What did you <em>do?”</em> Lysithea asks, her tone casual. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, he straightens, and he stares Lysithea full on in the face.“I didn’t do jack shit!” he snipes back, sounding much more like his usual self.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance sidelong to my right and find Caederyn staring, his gaze helplessly transfixed on Feon.He must have noticed it too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea wraps her arm around Feon’s neck (another oddity) and leans in close.She plucks free another grape and shoves it indelicately into Feon’s mouth with enough force that it bursts against his bared teeth.He opens his mouth to snap at her and she pops the now crushed grape directly inside.He splutters and chokes for a solid thirty seconds before finally swallowing the fruit, mutiny in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eat your lunch before you get so crabby you set the whole canopy on fire,” she orders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Strangely, Feon relents.He seems resigned to her proximity, still prickly and unhappy, but not actively fighting against her.Under her insistence, he eats what one might consider a vague approximation of a lunch, all the while shooting Lysithea furtive glances that she sometimes acknowledges.Sometimes they speak, though I can’t make out what they say.I don’t get it, but I’m too afraid to risk breaking this strange peace between them to bring it up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Lysithea catches me staring, she grins up at me, and there’s something vaguely wicked in the white gleaming of her teeth.Whatever she and Feon are conspiring about must be very troublesome indeed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile back at her and say, “Now, why don’t you tell me what kept you so busy today?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea laughs and devolves into a long monologue about assisting her parent with some negotiations and that strange spell is broken.She and Feon separate and she shifts immediately closer to me.Caederyn finds the first opportunity to interject himself into our conversation, but he takes care not to aggravate Lysithea.Feon makes some vaguely disgusted noises at something Lysithea says and throws a freshly peeled grape at her face.He misses, but only barely.Caederyn finds my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The heat of the day makes everything feel liquid and slow and dreamlike.The low hum of conversation mingles with the steady singing of cicadas.I smell a burst of citrus as someone peels open an orange.It’s strange and it’s peaceful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Everything feels normal, almost, save for Fidelity’s absence.No, not normal: better than normal.Feon and Caederyn haven’t made up exactly, but they are existing in the same space and are participating in the same conversation.We go the rest of the meal without anyone grievously insulting each other and causing a scene, which, with Lysithea, Feon, and Caederyn put together, is a truly monumental feat.It feels as if, somehow, everything is finally starting to come together.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Creatures Foul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eleven days pass.If things are not good, exactly, they are at least better.Feon and Caederyn still avoid one another, but the tension has cooled somewhat.They can exist in the same room without making everyone else profoundly uncomfortable and as far as I am concerned, that is progress.I still don’t think they’ve talked to one another — but they are at least talking to <em>me</em> somewhat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I begin carefully, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I set down the letter I’ve just finished reading, a letter penned to me by Lady Emira, so that I can give Feon my entire attention.We’re sitting together in my workroom, me at my desk and Feon perched atop it.He frowns at me, his brow drawing down heavily, his face morphing into a look that clearly reads as “this sounds like it’s going to be annoying but I don’t think I can avoid it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, don’t be a brat,” I say and slap him lightly on the thigh.“I’ve just been wondering — you’ve been spending so much time looking, well, not like your typical self...”Feon’s brows shoot up, disappearing under his golden curls.“You <em>know</em> what I mean.Despite having been caught out, you seem to still want to make use of your guise as Lady Fae.”If I have to spell it out clearly, I will.“I was wondering if there was — if you had a preference for how I should refer to you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s frown takes on a new flavor — still somewhat peeved, but now with a nice little peppering of confusion to spice it up.“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know — obviously when you’re ‘disguised’ amongst the others, I won’t out you.But when it’s just the two of us — I’d like to… well, I just want to make certain I’m using the right name.And pronouns.You know.Just because things have been a certain way for a long time, I don’t necessarily want to assume—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon releases a sort of long suffering sigh.He fixes his golden eyes upon me.“Allene, I don’t give a fuck,” he replies disdainfully, as if this should somehow be obvious.“Gender is a human concept and a particularly boring one at that.Sure, there are novelties, but the way you know me, the way I look — it’s fake.It’s not real.”Feon gestures down at his body contemptuously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>chose</em> this body.I have only ever appeared to be a man out of convenience.I was brought here to be by Caed’s side, to protect him and love him and <em>stay with him.</em>A lot of humans get real fucking messy about it when mixed gendered pairs spend too much time together and we are Bonded for life.People get weird and suspicious and sun be damned if the royal heir is bearing child and there are questions about the blood.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His speech is animated, aggravated, bordering on outraged, and his breathing has grown somewhat labored.The words spill from his mouth with all the force of a burgeoning, bitter storm, like torrential rain that breaks after days of oppressive looming clouds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Seeing my expression of shock, he seems to sober slightly.He glances away from me, and this time the frown that puckers his lips is small and somehow private.“Nothing about me has really changed.I’ve never — <em>cared</em> — one way or another.No matter how I look, I’m me.Fae isn’t even — I couldn’t think of a name.I started saying <em>my</em> name and realized I fucked up halfway through.”His face goes a strange, awful red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, my heart softening.“Oh, you horrible dunce, that’s so—”I can’t think of what, exactly, that is and so I stop and just shake my head as a terrible fondness grips me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shrugs and looks determinedly away from me.Even the tips of his ears have gone pink.He’s silent for a long time, his body taut with indecision.I can see he’s teetering on the edge of something and so I fold my hands in my lap and wait patiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There are things I can do as Fae that I can’t do as me,” he says finally.He speaks slowly, the words coming out as drips from a beaker, each one measured with an uncharacteristic amount of care.“People treat me differently.I never really minded it before, but now that Caed is all—”He pulls a disgusted face and makes a vaguely rude gesture.My brows raise.I know that I’m the reason for Caederyn being whatever terrible word Feon can’t quite think of.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know you’ve been — struggling,” I reply cautiously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As much as I resent suffering the blame for Feon and Caederyn’s troubles — which were a long time coming regardless of my presence — I daren’t bring it up, not now that Feon is finally talking about this.It’s frustrating, sometimes, to tiptoe around his feelings, but I can tell he is trying and I don’t wish to discourage that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s weird,” Feon admits, “being separate from him like this.”He glances my way and sighs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t <em>not</em> think about him.”He pulls his feet up onto the desk with him and tucks his knees into his chest.If he weren’t making an effort to be vulnerable, I’d chide him for getting his shoes on my work table.“But every time I see his face, I kind of want to punch him.”He plants his chin in between his knees and looks out the opposite window, his expression the antithesis of the clear skies outside.“And I used to only have him — at least, mostly.I didn’t really care about anyone else.I didn’t want to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He takes a deep breath, the sort of breath that precedes foolish and needlessly reckless attempts at heroism.For Feon, I suppose this <em>is</em> heroic in a way — or it’s at least very difficult.Until recently, I’d only ever known him to be nothing shy of allergic to feelings or vulnerability.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can still feel him, you know,” he continues, voice hushed.“It makes it harder to forgive him because I can’t ever get <em>rid</em> of him.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The idea that Feon might want to forgive him at all is a relief in and of itself.The problem is, I think he knows that — I think he knows that I want that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bite my lip and take a deep breath.“Yes, well, about that...”Feon perks up immediately.He fixes his golden eyes upon me.“I might finally have an idea.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Every line of his body has grown tense, not like a rabbit freezing before a fox, but like a predator preparing to pounce.In him there is a hunger — and a hurt.It’s the first we’ve talked about this since he brought it up all those days ago.In truth, I’ve been avoiding it, hoping things might resolve.And all the while, as the days stretched long, an idea had begun to percolate in the back of my mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Get on with it, then,” he hisses impatiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shift back in my chair and survey him carefully.Feon <em>knows </em>what I want from him and Caederyn — or, at least, he knows some measure of it.“Do you really want to forgive him?” I ask suspiciously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, obviously,” he says immediately.I raise one eyebrow and he shrinks back slightly.“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice getting weak.“Maybe.”I cross my arms over my chest.He scowls and says, “No, fine, I <em>don’t</em> want to, but right now I can’t even try.Regardless — you said you would.You <em>owe</em> me.”He’s like a hound on a scent, single minded and relentless, but not at all clever.Feon is not nearly as sly as he thinks he is.I think that’s a good thing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” I reply.“But I can’t help but think that this will only make things worse between you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t know that.”He hunches forward, his chin planted on his knees again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, you’re right, I can’t know for certain, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A loud rapping sounds at the door.I glance back towards it, then to Feon, then to the door again.“We’ll speak of this later.”I wait until Feon nods and then call out, “Come in!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door opens and behind it is Sir Sieglinde, looking even redder than usual.She’s sweating profusely, her round face glistening wetly, and I realize she must have run at full pelt all the way up the stairs.I straighten in my seat, my entire body going tense.Beside me, Feon has dropped his feet to the floor and is now standing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace,” Sir Sieglinde begins, a little out of breath, “You’ve been summoned — both of you, in fact — for a meeting with the king.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rise to my feet immediately.“Is something the matter?” I ask, my heartbeat accelerating.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde’s face breaks out into a wide grin.“Your guest is here,” she says.I don’t believe she knows the specifics of the matter, but she knows enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, thank the Laws!” I exclaim.I grab my journal and the dagger, which I’ve carefully rewrapped in the cloth in which I received it, and hasten out the door, Feon following close on my heels.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We descend the stairs quickly, past the first landing and all the way down to the ground floor.Sir Sieglinde leads us quickly across the palace halls until we reach a pair of grand arched doors.At the doors’ apex is a brilliant golden sun, split evenly down the middle so that when the doors close the two halves meet.Its rays radiate across each door’s surface and down upon a mass of swirling, undulating clouds captured in intricate golden detail.Sir Sieglinde pushes these doors open and we pass through into a chamber I’ve only visited a handful of times since my arrival in Soliss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The palace’s throne room is a glittering jewel.It’s small as far as throne rooms go, though I suppose that is how I think of much of Pyrehart Palace: grand and yet smaller than it should be, or at least smaller than I am accustomed to.It is a long room, the sort of room that reverberates, every footstep magnified threefold, every whisper prone to echo. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The ceiling is high and vaulted and punctuated by pointed arches, carved with such detail as to exhaust the eyes and each culminating in a set of pillars.The ceiling itself is a golden web of interlaced shards of drachenglas.When fully lit, the room is ablaze with sunlight, a golden beacon of power and justice.Now, with only half the shards lit, the chamber has a shaded, dreamy quality to it, like dappled daylight filtering through a canopy of trees or rays of sun piercing through minute holes in a crumbling cavern.Dust hangs suspended in these beams, turned glittering and golden by the light.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The chamber sits empty save for a small number of guards posted near the far wall.Half lit and desolate, it is a strange place, a waiting place, a room in anticipation, a held breath captured in wood and metal and marble.It is a room that leads you in, that directs you to its culmination: a raised dais upon which sits a wide, golden throne.There are three seats here, the central of which is taller and wider than the others.Behind the throne is a shining flat metal sun, the twin of that depicted upon the doors outside. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beautiful as it is, the throne room does not seem to be our destination.Sir Sieglinde leads us around this plinth, behind the sun sculpture, and to the wall.She nods at the other guards and presses her hand to a spot on the wall that seems no different than any other.It gives under her touch, and as it does so I can make out the faintest seam in the wall, a line that runs perhaps seven feet high.That section of wall recedes slightly and Sir Sieglinde does <em>something</em> — I don’t catch what exactly — and the wall parts before her, revealing an open doorway.Feon doesn’t seem surprised by its appearance.Sir Sieglinde steps aside and beckons us through.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be waiting for you when it’s over,” she says cheerily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door leads to a short, narrow hallway, which culminates in another door, though one of the more mundane variety.I hesitate when we reach it.Feon rolls his eyes and pushes past me and knocks.It’s a tight fit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A moment later, the door opens, and we are greeted by Captain Elske’s grim face.“You’re here,” she says.“Good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stands back and allows us inside and closes the door behind us.This chamber is consumed almost entirely by a table at its center.It’s not cramped, per se, but there is room to sit at the table and room for people to move around those seated and not much else.It’s dimly lit and darkly furnished and gives the impression of a space slowly suffocating on its own importance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only the central table is well lit.A leaden, rectangular thing, its circumference is made of heavy black-brown wood.The interior is entirely glass.It is this that is lit: rather than having a light shone down upon it, the glass itself shines, though unlike the light-bearing drachenglas I am accustomed to seeing, its surface is entirely transparent while lit.Beneath it are a number of maps of Nadara and its surrounding areas, as well as a map of Tir Lua in its entirety, all rendered with painful precision.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s somewhat eerie.The table’s light illuminates the people sat around it from beneath, revealing only those parts closest to the light and sending the rest to fade into soft, enveloping shadow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of the figures stands.“Allene,” he calls, and I recognize the voice as Caederyn’s. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He rounds the table and meets us at the doorway.When he leans in to kiss my cheek I whisper, “Why are all the lights off?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” he says, as if he hadn’t realized how odd this all appears.“It’s an old room and not one that’s easy to update.It’s outfitted somewhat... archaically.”I can’t see his expression, but I can hear his embarrassment.“Feon — if you would, please.”There’s a slight tremor in his voice.Feon makes a low grumbling sound and moves away from us.Caederyn takes my hand and leads me in the other direction to take a seat at the table next to him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look around the table.After my eyes have some time to acclimate to the gloom, I begin to recognize faces — all save one.The king sits at the head of the table, with Caederyn at his right and (to my surprise) the queen to his left.I haven’t seen much of her since my welcoming ball.She seems a remote person, a spice rather than a main course, something to be peppered into one’s life with careful moderation.She leans heavily upon her chair’s back and what little I can see of her face appears drawn and weary.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the queen’s other side is a man I’ve never seen before. He’s short, shorter even than Feon I think, and sits stooped in his chair, his body enveloped by a truly suffocating amount of cloth.How he manages it in this heat, I have no idea.Perhaps this garb is only for the cooler palace interior and he will change before leaving.Somehow, I doubt it.I can’t make out much more of his appearance than this, save for his short, wiry beard, and the thick, round spectacles that gleam like twin moons on his face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske remains standing, her stance wide, her arms crossed over her chest.There is no one else — no advisors, no servants, no additional guards.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Princess Allene, this is the scholar your arcanist so kindly directed our way,” the king says, breaking the silence.His voice sounds strange, muffled.This, I think, is a place meant to be quiet.Whereas the throne room picks up sound and echoes it gladly, this room soaks up sound, strangles it, leaves it a withered husk of itself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pleasure to meet you at last, Your Highness,” the man says and nods his head in turn to myself, Caederyn, the king and the queen.“My name is Kerr Gooden.Please consider me at your service.”His voice is high and dry and warbling, like a dehydrated songbird.His Nadaran accent is impeccable — better than mine, I think.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The pleasure is mine,” I reply swiftly.I find my own voice strange: dampened, muffled in the way it might be if I pressed my hands to my ears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There comes a soft clicking from the far wall and then a hiss and then light, hazy and amber, flickers to life.I find Feon stationed at the far wall next to some sort of large box.He sucks at the tip of his thumb for a moment before ambling over to take the seat next to me.He plants his elbows on the table and leans onto them heavily, his face propped up by his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate the old tech,” he grouses quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Embedded in the ceiling are small, warped rectangles of drachenglas.They swim with color, yellow and orange and gold and red, and the light they emit is soft, weak, and heavily tinted.If the drachenglas in the throne room shines akin to daylight, then the light this glass emits is similar to the last weak dregs of illumination before the sun is swallowed by a horizon cloaked in fog. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Feon,” the king says.He takes a moment to survey the people around him before he speaks again.“Let us get to the matter at hand.”There is a weight to his voice, a gravity that seems immune to the room’s dampening quality.“What did Arcanist Ebner tell you of this issue?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not much,” Kerr Gooden says.Despite his apparent age (though I cannot say if he is fifty or seventy and would believe either), there is a vigor to him.He sits on the edge of his seat, his fingers poised at the table’s lip, not quite moving, but never still.“But enough, I think.She said you had need of someone versed in archaic Ogrench dialects.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes!” I reply enthusiastically.I slide the cloth-wrapped dagger across the table towards him and take out my journal.“There is a marking on this blade that is only visible under certain circumstances.”I flip to the relevant pages in my journal.“I’ve copied it here as best I am able, as well as its closest approximates in Fennlish and Glennish.That, at least, I was able to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden looks over my drawings and my notes for several minutes before he carefully draws the dagger out and takes it in hand.He wraps his fingers around the hilt, holds it close to his eyes, presses the pad of his opposing pointer finger to the blade’s tip until a single bead of blood wells to the surface.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what circumstances would those be?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the dagger.He angles it so that the bead of blood races down its surface</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Blood, as you seem to have surmised,” I reply, “And darkness.A moonless night reveals it most clearly, but it will show faintly under other circumstances as well: moonlit nights, so long as it is kept out of the moonlight, daylight in enclosed, lightless spaces and arcane darkness have all provided varying results.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden pulls a cloth from a massive pack seated next to him — a pack I had not previously noticed — and draws it over both himself and the dagger.The cloth is strange.It has no sheen, no visible texture, no depth.It is flat and utterly lightless, a small malleable void that is used and then quickly folded and put away.This is not what I expected.I had expected some poor, aging creature that smelled of decaying parchment who would pore through old texts until they found the relevant translation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mister Gooden, I was under the impression that you were a linguist rather than an arcanist — was I misinformed?” I ask, trying to sound polite.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He throws back his head and looses a wheezing laugh that sounds much like a door that is in dire need of oiling.“What, do I look like a wizard?” he asks, his wrinkled face splitting into a wide grin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look him over again — that strange face that is difficult to put an age to, the papery skin, the strong widow’s peak, the wavy silver hair that hasn’t quite made up its mind to be unruly yet, but seems to be getting there.If his face and demeanor suggest a certain flavor of eccentricity, his clothing screams it.He wears a thick, short gown with sleeves that could swamp a man twice his height, belted at the waist and kept open to reveal a matching laced jerkin over a white shirt.And he is dressed almost entirely in an orange so bright it is near offensive, an orange that vibrates and makes the eyes ache.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A little bit, yes,” I say at the same time Feon says: “Yes, obviously.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden doesn’t look insulted.More than anything, he looks amused.“I don’t have the credentials to be an arcanist, nor the training,” he says, “A fact that Rook is always very happy to remind me of.”He sets the dagger down upon the table before him.At some point, he must have wiped away the blood, for I no longer see it.“I won’t bore you with the specifics, as they are not wholly pertinent and my audience is not with you alone—”Here, he inclines his head quickly to the king, “—but suffice to say that the Briar Laws are an imposition.A framework.They are not magic itself, but a lens through which to view it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I open my mouth to speak, a defensive heat rising in my gut, but he continues hastily before I can get a word in, “I’m not saying that it’s not a very useful lens, clearly it is or it would not have become so ubiquitous in Voswainian culture.But it is not the whole of magic — nor is it the only useful lens through which to view it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Here, the queen coughs delicately into her hand.She looks vaguely queasy.She draws a simple handkerchief from her pocket, the spasms slowly escalating in magnitude as she holds it to her mouth.She continues her coughing fit for another minute or so before it subsides.The rest of the table falls silent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Apologies,” she says, her voice a weak warble, fluttery and fragile like the wings of a newly hatched moth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king lays a hand on her knee.They exchange a glance.Eventually, the queen shakes her head.“Please continue,” the king says.“I assume this explanation provides a useful context for our issue.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I cringe slightly.I forget, sometimes, that not everyone shares my interests — that most everyone else here is looking solely for a destination and not necessarily for the path that leads to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, of course,” Kerr Gooden says hastily.“This script here,” he continues, and taps the place in my journal where I copied the blade’s symbol, “It is an old tongue, older than any of us have proper context for, and it is an inherently magical one.This marking that you’ve copied is only the body, the shell, as flat as the paper it sits upon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown back at the scholar, but before I can speak, Feon voices my question: “What the hell does that <em>mean?”</em>I can practically hear the way his nose is likely to be scrunching up and when I glance sidelong towards him, I find my suspicions correct.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Think of it like looking into a pool of water: you can see the surface of it and glean certain information from that, such as the measure of its surface, the weather, which trees and animals drink from its waters.You do not know the water’s temperature or its salinity or if it is inhabited by alligators or if, say, the pool itself is actually a cleverly disguised mouth.”He pauses for a moment and glances around the table to see if we are following along.Finding that we have not, he hastens to add:“Perhaps I’ve let the analogy escape me.The point is — Luani, the language in question — is not a language that can merely be transcribed.Let’s say that you smash an egg on a table and it makes a sound and you transcribe that sound to paper.There is something lost there.No matter how good your approximation of the sound, they are not the same.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So this language — Luani — who speaks it?And if it’s an innately magical language, why is it not under Arcanist Ebner’s purview?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why, the fae speak it, of course,” Kerr Gooden answers, as if surprised I have to ask.“It is a language that predates the settlement of Tir Lua and learning it is a somewhat thankless task.Even having spent decades studying it, I would say my comprehension is rudimentary at best.It is made particularly difficult because there are not exactly any number of fair folk chomping at the bit to teach it or to act as translator.And those that might — I would not trust their motives.Like as not, they’d bungle the whole thing intentionally just for the fun of it.That, or eat the foolish human who asked — also, likely, for the fun of it.”Despite his words, he doesn’t sound bothered in the least.Rather, there is a shining sort of captivation in his old face, an eagerness that makes him look more than a little demented.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, you are unable to help us, then,” Caederyn says, his voice heavy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no!” Kerr Gooden says, startled.“No, I never said that.A single symbol — and not a particularly uncommon one — coupled with the conditions that must be met for its revealing…No, you’ve given me enough to work with, I’m quite confident that I can help you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a moment of communal relief, a moment where I feel my shoulders relax and I exhale a long held sigh — one I was not alone in holding.In that moment, we are all of one mind, and I can almost see the tension bleeding out of our bodies, like rinsing the dye out of fabric.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, then, what does it mean?” Feon demands, perhaps a bit impatiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden ignores him and instead looks to me.“Am I correct in assuming that this is your handiwork, princess?” he asks, tapping my journal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I reply somewhat nervously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s good work, provided the limitations of your education.”I have no time to take offense at this, as he barrels on without pause.“The translation as ‘thirst’ — it is not entirely wrong, but it is not the truth.This symbol—” here, he pauses to tap just below the dagger’s hilt, where the symbol lays invisible and dormant, “—it is a name.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it the maker’s name?” I ask excitedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says, dashing my hopes in one short syllable.“Nor is it a name of the blade itself.This dagger isn’t particularly remarkable and likely wasn’t deserving of a specific name.No — it’s a name in the same way you might call a cat a cat or a tree a tree.Perhaps it is more specific than that — a tabby or an elm — regardless, it is not a name that indicates singularity.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” I say, feeling within me a slow rising tide of frustration.I hate to feel myself bested by something that is apparently so mundane that it did not require even a cursory name.“If it’s not particularly special — or unique—”I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice.I fail utterly.“—Then what is the significance?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden says a word, then: a single syllable that stretches long, that sounds like water running over the tongue, that slides through my ears but does not make purchase in my mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” I demand, my hands balled tightly in my lap, my breath coming out in short angry puffs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” he says, “As I said, it’s not a particularly friendly word to learn.The name here on the blade — the best I can pronounce it for the unacquainted ear is ’strix.’”I stare back at him, tight lipped, and wait for him to continue.He takes a moment to glance around the table and then, seeing frustration or resentment or impatience, hastens forward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a sort of creature, a being of darkness and moonlight and thirst.”He taps the blade’s pommel, that shining, red-black orb.“This is its eye,” he says conversationally, as if he hasn’t just said something monumental.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What!!” I demand for the second time in a row, the word wheezing out of me as a single exhaled breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course, whichever fae saw to the making of this dagger found a way of preserving it before implanting it in the sword — it wouldn’t be difficult.The strix is a creature that is naturally aligned with death, that skirts the borders between living and not, and so its body is rather agreeable about resisting decay.”He continues without much thought or pause, as if all of this is very obvious.Kerr Gooden seems intent upon expounding at length about whatever aspect of this matter is of greater interest to him, rather than beginning with the basics.I wonder if this is how I sound when I try to explain things to Caederyn or Feon.It is at once enlightening and galling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What sort of creature is it?” I press. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden halts, removes his glasses, wipes them with the sleeve of his gown, blinks several times, and replaces them.“Right,” he says, “Of course, that is important to know.I think you would be familiar with a close cousin — the upir.You know, beautiful creatures, half alive, half dead, who drink human blood.The usual.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” I say.“The usual.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, they’re not exactly <em>rare,”</em> he says, his nose scrunching up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, a — are you talking about a vampire?” Caederyn interjects, his voice gone weirdly high pitched.For someone who has spent near his entire life with a dragon, you’d think a vampire would be small potatoes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance down at the dagger again, my eyes fixing upon the pommel: a red-black orb perhaps two inches in diameter.“If that’s it’s eye, how — how big was this creature?” I ask faintly.For some reason, the idea of a very large upir is somehow both much more frightening and much more ridiculous than a normally sized one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not an upir,” Kerr Gooden corrects quickly, “Or a vampire.But related.And they don’t look human — or at least, this one didn’t, not in its true form.”He picks the dagger back up and examines the jewel — the eye — closely again.“I’d wager a guess — and would be comfortable doing so — saying that it likely looked like an owl.”I gawk at him.Seeing my expression, he hastens to amend: “A very, very large and mean-looking owl.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Feon looses a bark of laughter.“Why a <em>mean</em> owl?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, owls all sort of have that look about them, don’t they?A bit mean in the face.But this one would have been especially so, particularly with all the blood and — everything.”The way Kerr Gooden talks — animated but even — I could almost believe that everything he is saying is very reasonable and not at all ridiculous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait—” I begin, my brain latching on to one particular detail.“Do birds even drink?”I turn to Feon.“Feon, you’re our resident bird expert: do birds actually, you know, drink things?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon tenses immediately.“What,” he says, clearly panicking, “Yeah, of course they do — I mean — probably.I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But owls are predators,” I continue, my brow furrowing, “So wouldn’t they get their moisture from their prey?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden, not to be outdone, cuts back in, “First, the strix is known to often consume flesh and blood alike — and second, I said that they are owl-<em>like.</em>They are not actually owls.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but—” I begin, but find myself cut off by the rasp of someone clearing their throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn to see King Rynnwald, whose presence I had nearly forgotten about, sat at the head of the table, one elbow resting on its surface, his hand pressed to his brow.He looks rather exhausted and, all in all, done with our shit.“I don’t mind you debating the dietary habits of birds or creatures foul—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Creatures fowl or foul,” Feon whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.I hastily press my hand to my mouth so that I do not laugh.I keep my eyes resolutely glued to the king, who has now straightened, but still looks no less done with our shit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“—But is there a point to all of this?What does this all mean?What is the blade’s purpose?And how would a mortal go about acquiring it?”The king’s face is like stone — old and lined and utterly humorless.Beside him, the queen is smiling with the quiet serenity of the very old or very weary.She seems perfectly content to sit back and watch us squabble about inane bullshit for the next two hours.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden hastily locks his gaze onto the king and shifts to address him.“Right, yes, of course — my apologies, Your Majesty.”He makes a quick nod, an awkward sitting bow, and continues.“The function, well, such arcane identifications are not my speciality, but I presume the purpose is to accelerate the blood flow of one’s opponent, to lay them low with lesser wounds, to sap their strength.I cannot say for certain — you would need a true arcanist for this — but the enchantment in conjunction with the strix’s eye may even enable the wielder to absorb that fortitude, to steal and claim it for their own.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instantly, the mood in the room sobers.What little humor was left in the air evaporates.I watch as three pairs of eyes — Feon’s, Caederyn’s, and the king’s — are all drawn to the dagger, as if it is a terrible eyesore of a magnet and they are but helpless metal filings.The matter of blood is not a neutral one amongst this group.I think we are, all of us, very glad that the dagger ended up in our hands and not in someone else’s.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden waits and when no one interrupts him, he continues.“As for the acquisition…”He picks up the dagger and turns it this way and that before his face.Three pairs of eyes follow with rapt attention.The rest of us follow with a slightly more normal amount of attention.“I’m no master blacksmith, nor am I a true arcanist.I cannot date this with precision, but judging by the eye’s stability and the somewhat shoddy workmanship, I’d hazard it at around fifty years of age.If the blade were better crafted, I might say longer — eighty, maybe ninety years of age — because I’d imagine the eye would be better preserved and would decay more slowly.Sadly, whoever made this wasn’t terribly interested in making anything of particular quality or longevity.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do you know that?” the king presses.“I’ve had three trusted blacksmiths — masters of their craft — look it over and they had nothing but praises for its construction.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, by human standards,” Kerr Gooden says patiently.“But, well, it’s a bit ugly, you know?And it doesn’t seem to have any protective measures to tie it to a single wielder or to prevent tampering.Whoever made this, if they were fae, was either inexperienced or, well—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stone cold didn’t give a fuck?” Feon asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance sidelong to look at the king.He doesn’t look anymore exhausted or disappointed than he did already.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t put it that way, but, yes, essentially,” the scholar replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And the acquisition of it,” King Rynnwald says, his voice teetering on the edge of impatience.“Who could acquire such a blade and how?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There’s no consistent rule for such dealings,” Kerr Gooden says carefully.“And who’s to say that whoever traded for it initially is the one who passed it to you?”He hesitates a moment, as if hoping that that is enough, but quickly reads the room and continues.“There are any number of folk who might trade with the fae, and they range from individuals with experience with and respect for the old ways, to horrible fools that are likely destined for an early grave.Treating directly with the fae is never an endeavor without risk, and that risk is usually fatal.It’s not something that anyone with a brain would document or boast of — that being said, people have done both.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Similarly, there are tales of mortals stealing from fae, but I have no inkling as to whether or not there is any truth to those claims — or at least any truth to the claims that they <em>lived.”</em>He takes a moment to clear his throat.“There are guides that can be hired to parlay with the fair folk who might assist in some form of barter, but I hardly think this blade would be worth that cost,” he says dismissively.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So we know nothing,” the king says, his voice heavy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no, we know plenty,” Kerr Gooden replies brightly.“We know whoever wanted to kill whichever of you saw the wrong end of this blade was likely very motivated.”I don’t envy the scholar for the look he receives.King Rynnwald’s eyes — those heavy, dark eyes — bear a weight to them, a pressure that slowly quells the smile on Kerr Gooden’s face.“So, no, nothing particularly new or interesting there, unfortunately,” he squeaks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know of any means of tracking its creator?” I ask gently.“Or whoever has handled it?I attempted to find such a spell earlier, but found frustratingly little that was of actual use.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At this, Kerr Gooden looks thoughtful.“I’m not certain…”He speaks slowly, as if he has to take time to mull over the words, to chew them thoroughly before digesting.“Again, it’s not really my area of expertise…If you wished to parlay with the fae, I wouldn’t recommend it, but I could advise there… but Rook — Arcanist Ebner — she might have some suggestions.”He pauses for a moment, one hand posed thoughtfully on his chin, brushing his wiry beard.“I’ll pen a letter to her,” he says at last.“I assume my knowledge has been at least somewhat illuminating and perhaps it will be enough to give her a foothold for… something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would appreciate that,” I say hurriedly.“And also — not that I’m necessarily interested in parlaying with the fae — but if I were… I think I would benefit from an amount of learning there.Just in case.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden gives me a shrewd look, but doesn’t say anything.“I’m always happy to give people the tools.Just don’t blame me for what you make with them.”He cracks a grin in my direction.My returning smile is slow and not wholly genuine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment of silence, the king stands.“Well,” he says, exhaling a heavy sigh.“This was… illuminating in some regards and confounding in others.Thank you for your time, Mister Gooden, I will see to it that you are properly compensated for your expertise.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden stands quickly and bows low.When he raises his head, his grin is so broad that I catch a glint of a single golden tooth nestled somewhere behind his right canine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Much obliged, much obliged,” he says, his creaky old voice softened in an attempt at sycophancy.It’s not a good look on him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">King Rynnwald makes a gesture to dismiss him and then turns to help his wife to her feet.She leans heavily upon him, her arms wrapped loosely around one of his, walking as if every step taxes her.She is far too young to look so terribly fragile.I’ve seen people like her before, people brought low by some horrible vitriol in their blood or a frailty in their bones, people made to suffer twice the cost for half the payout.Sometimes it’s curable — or at least able to be eased — by the innovations of arcane invention.Sometimes it isn’t.At the very least, Queen Lienna seems happy and the king seems to treasure her wholeheartedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon quickly moves to Queen Lienna’s other side and wraps his arm around her shoulder.It’s a practiced move, one that speaks of years of familiarity.The king and queen both accept his presence without question, as if it is only natural that he be there.Queen Lienna briefly leans towards Feon and murmurs something to him, though it’s too quiet for me to hear from this distance.Feon smiles back at her, beaming bright as the sun.The three of them depart down the narrow hallway together.Caederyn gamely ignores all of this, but there is an artifice to his composure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stand and I turn away from the exiting trio and refocus my attention upon the scholar.“Mister Gooden, do you have some means of quickly contacting Arcanist Ebner?” I ask.“I have a siphon quill and could copy a message directly to her if need be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not necessary, princess, but I appreciate it,” he says as he repacks his bag.I pick up the dagger from the table and begin to loosely rewrap it.“I have my own means and I think I may need more than a few minutes to craft this missive.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, then, thank you very much for your expertise.It was… interesting to say the least,” I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Here, Kerr Gooden tosses his head back and cackles.“Apologies, my lady, apologies.”With one hand, he tilts his spectacles upwards, and with the other he wipes away a stray tear.“Nothing involving the fae is ever simple.Things being interesting is about all I can guarantee.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh and pocket my journal.“Still, it was… helpful.If I come upon new information, is there a way I might reach you quickly?If it requires funds, I would be happy to provide them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She means, the crown would be happy to provide the funds,” Caederyn interjects as he moves to stand at my elbow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I send Caederyn a half fond, half annoyed look.“Yes, that,” I cede.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kerr Gooden looks between the two of us, his smile going crooked and half baked.“Sadly, my travels often take me to elusive places and, as I am not a master arcanist, I do not have the means…”He pauses for a moment, his face falling into a shrewd frown.After a brief hesitation, that jackal’s smile returns to his lips.“Rook — Ebner — she has means of contacting me.She is one of the few who do.If you find you have need of me, write to her, and she’ll find a way to send me word.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes glint with a deep mischief, a sort of greedy amusement.I do not think that Arcanist Ebner, one of the foremost arcanists in all of Voswain (and likely in all of Tir Lua), would particularly enjoy being reduced to no more than a messenger — but I think Kerr Gooden would like nothing better.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll send word via pigeon paper,” I suggest hastily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some of the light in his smile fades.“Hmm.That would likely work.Though, it’s not infallible…”He muses on it for another moment longer before shrugging and picking up his pack.“I will defer to your judgement, princess.”There’s something sly in the way he says it that I don’t quite like.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it has been lovely meeting you,” I say, not entirely certain if that is true.Kerr Gooden gives another low bow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn steps around me and addresses the scholar: “If you’d accompany me, Mister Gooden, I’ll take you to the bursar and have the matter of your payment settled.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of us exit together.Caederyn leaves first with Kerr Gooden close on his heel, his massive, herbaceous pack dwarfing his tiny frame.I follow soon after, my journal in one hand and the dagger in the other.Captain Elske leaves last.She seals the door shut behind us and remains before it, fiddling with something, as the rest of us move on. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde awaits me a few short feet away.I dismiss her for the rest of the day and make the trek to my tower alone, my mind buzzing with all manner of thoughts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find the door to my workroom unlocked — surprising, but not necessarily strange.I must have forgotten to lock it in my haste to leave.The dagger clutched in one hand, my journal sandwiched between my elbow and stomach, I turn the handle and open the door.I find my workroom already occupied.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea lounges in one of the armchairs, her narrow body stretched to its fullest, a book posed artfully in one hand, her feet resting carelessly on the low table before her.The late afternoon sun glints in her silver hair like daylight on the scales of a fish.She glances up at the sound of the door falling shut behind me.There’s an intention imbedded within her posture, a constructed nonchalance, when she smiles and says, “Why, Allene, fancy meeting you here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it <em>is</em> my workroom,” I reply, somewhat amused. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I approach my desk, placing my journal in its allotted spot.I angle my body slightly, conscious of the loosely wrapped dagger held in my left hand.It’s not that I don’t trust Lysithea, but more that I think that the king would not appreciate anyone other than our carefully limited number learning more of the matter than they should. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m unsure who else you would expect to meet here.”I open a drawer on my desk and stow the dagger within it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you know, perhaps Clemence or Fidelity or that big bear of a woman,” she says casually, her voice coming from directly behind me.I jump slightly, my shoulders jerking upwards.I hadn’t heard her move.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir Sieglinde?” I ask, distracted.I turn in place.Lysithea is standing very, very close to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, her,” she says with a general air of indifference.She has one hand planted on the desk beside me, the other posed artfully to sit half in, half out of her pocket.“Or maybe,” she says, a sly grin sliding onto her lips, “A certain dragon..?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I scoff and brush her aside.“Yes, we’ve been more friendly recently,” I reply dismissively. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean back against my desk, resting some of my weight on its edge — partly for comfort and partly to give myself some breathing room.I don’t know what to do with my hands.I set them at my sides upon the desk’s edge, bracketing my body, and one of my hands brushes hers.We hold for a moment.She doesn’t retract her hand.In the end, I am the one to move.I cross my arms awkwardly over my chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How friendly?” she asks, her voice a low purr.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Friendly enough,” I say evasively.I’m not ready to tell anyone about the strides we’ve been making, not yet, and definitely not Lysithea — at least not before I tell Caederyn.Admittedly, I feel a little odd <em>not</em> telling him, but, well… there are things I want — things that I think would all too easily crumble if I don’t handle them with care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea smiles up at me.If I were shorter, she might better succeed in having me cornered.As it is, it’s almost comical.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh.“Lysithea, what do you want?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, I can’t drop in on my good friend unless I want something?After all the trouble I went to just to be here for you on this, the season of your wedding?”Her tone is all affronted, the voice of a woman slandered without cause, but her smile is wicked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I roll my eyes.“Obviously, you’re welcome to see me as you like.I do <em>usually</em> enjoy your company,” I reply, emphasizing the word so she knows it’s meant in jest.“But, clearly, you want something.I’d just like to know what it is.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea grins and plunges her hand into her pocket.Her hand resurfaces holding a small wooden box perfectly sized to fit in her palm.It’s painted intricately with a motif of the sea and sky.She flips open the lid and inside lays the bowl of an abalone shell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s broken,” she sighs, her face formed into a mock pout, “And I can’t get it to work again.Could you fix it for me?Please?”Without waiting for an answer, she presses it into my hands.I take it, bemused, and listen as she continues.“It’s supposed to play music and there’s an illusion that’s meant to accompany it, but I can’t get it working again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What did you do to it?” I ask, examining the box.I can’t see anything obviously wrong with it other than the fact that it is not working.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing at all!” she exclaims, the model of piety.“I found it at the bottom of one of my bags — I’d quite forgotten I even had it — and it wouldn’t start up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply, “But I’m not a tinkerer.I can’t guarantee I’ll make any headway.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, princess, you’re a doll,” she replies sweetly.She leans forward and presses a brief kiss to my cheek.Her lips are soft and cool.She smells sweet and sharp, like lemonade in the shade.The air between us is still, silent.She lingers longer than necessary.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m always happy to help a friend,” I say lightly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea’ s body stiffens.She opens her mouth to say something, but just then, there comes a knock at the door.As Lysithea straightens, the door swings open, and Caederyn enters.When he sees us, he stops in his tracks, his movement stuttering, and he nearly stumbles.He recovers quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Ballard, I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” he says with careful civility.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea straightens and takes a step back, her body pivoting to face his.“Terrible problem, that,” she says jovially.At Caederyn’s confusion, she continues, “Your lack of imagination.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn frowns at her for a moment before shaking his head and striding towards us.“I wouldn’t say that imagining your being here would require a particularly creative mind,” he replies stiffly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And yet, you still manage to fail even that low standard,” Lysithea says, heaving a beleaguered sigh.“I don’t know how you manage to live happily with a mind like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn bristles.“And I suppose being needlessly critical of others indicates your own vast wealth of joy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Everyone needs a hobby,” Lysithea replies blandly.“You should get one.Maybe then you’d be less radically dull.It must take a lot of work to be so entirely tiresome.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Caederyn can reply, I interject.“Laws have mercy!” I exclaim.“If I have to hear the two of you fight again, I will kick both of you out of here.”Lysithea draws back from me while Caederyn goes completely still.“Now, Caederyn, was there something you needed from me?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he replies instantly, with all the remorse of a penitent child.“It’s not pressing.”He seems tempted to leave it at that, but at my expression he continues:“I was wondering if you wanted to perhaps dine together tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say and smile.“Yes, I think that would be lovely.Lysithea has something she wants me to look over, but I’ll head to your chambers after we’ve finished.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s expression brightens immediately.“Alright,” he says.“I’ll go have things prepared.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to my lips.It’s a little awkward with Lysithea so close.She stands there, perhaps a foot away from me now, an expression of extreme boredom on her face, her arms crossed over her chest.When Caederyn retreats to the door, he says, “See you soon,” and gives me one of those small, sweet smiles I’m so desperately fond of.I send him a little wave and then the door shuts behind him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The moment he’s left, I round on Lysithea.“Was that wholly necessary?” I demand, irritated.“You needn’t turn every conversation with Caederyn into a confrontation.”Lysithea’ s expression turns petulant.Her shoulders rise defensively towards her ears.“You know, I’m rather fond of the both of you, but I can’t <em>stand</em> being in a room with you two.I wish you both could get along.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea retreats slightly.Her shoulders fall to a more relaxed posture and her chin raises stubbornly, but her arms remain tightly crossed over her chest.With all the insouciance she can manage, she says, “Allene, this <em>is</em> us getting along.I merely meant to tease, but he takes everything so <em>seriously.</em>It’s not my fault he has all the personality of stale bread.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My head falls back and I exhale a long, weary sigh that lasts the weight of a full year.I bring my hand to my forehead to massage away a looming headache.When at last I turn my gaze back upon Lysithea, I find her fidgeting with the hem of her shirt sleeve.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know it is difficult for you to be here and I appreciate your friendship and your dedication and your sense of humor — and sometimes even your propensity for nastiness.I really do.But Caederyn is making an attempt to be civil with you and no matter your relationship with him or his country, I <em>will</em> be marrying him and you had better get used to that idea.My patience is wearing thin.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea stutters backwards, shuddering with a full body flinch.She seems at a loss, unable to brush me aside as she would so many others.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move towards her with care.I hold out my hands until her arms slowly, reluctantly unwind from around her body, and I take her hands in mine.I wait until she is meeting my gaze and then I say, “I really think the two of you could be — if not friends, then, something other than enemies.You are both so dear to me and you have so many wonderful qualities.If nothing else, you share a kindness and a love for me.You don’t have to like him, but please try not to hate him.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squeeze her hands gently.Lysithea’s hands are cold and clammy.Her argent eyes are narrowed, her mouth pulled into a long, horrible grimace.She looks like she’s in pain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please try for me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea’s head ducks forward.After a long moment, she nods, her gleaming silver-white hair falling into her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I say.I set the wooden box down upon my desk.“I’m going to get ready for dinner now, I think.I’ll take a look at your trinket later.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea nods, silent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I move to exit, but pause at the door.“I’m going to leave now,” I say carefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hand finds the door handle.“Do you need some time alone?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hands clench.Her shoulders tense.And then she nods.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” I say.“Please find Sir Sieglinde and have her lock up when you’re done.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leave Lysithea there to sort herself out.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading, y'all!</p><p>next up is a Caed chapter!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. The Titan Bowl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whew! this one took a while, huh. probably some of you know what's been going on (aside from covid) and some don't. i don't wanna take this right to bummersville USA so suffice to say, something very tragic has happened near our home recently and we are in the logistical pre-process of moving and will be moving moving ASAP. there's been other stuff going on too, but this is really the kicker.</p><p>with everything going on, it's been really difficult to write, but i hope y'all enjoy this chapter nonetheless.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Caederyn</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a beautiful morning, the sort of day you remember longingly when the last of spring makes its egress and summer reigns supreme.  The air is crisp and clean with a faint briny bite that’s just enough to tickle the nose but not so much that it becomes unpleasant.  The scent is softened by the gentle fragrance of roses, sweet and earthy, and the faint hint of vanilla, as well as the occasional wafting of other, more potent aromas: the deliciously oily pungency of fried foods and roasting meats, the bright punch of citrus and sugar, the unnamable electricity of anticipation that is as much a texture as it is a smell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we really still in Soliss?” Allene asks as Captain Elske ferries our group into the private box.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m fairly certain,” I reply, smiling, “I’ve only lived here my entire life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon jostles my shoulder as he passes me.  When I catch his eye, his nose wrinkles and he sticks out his tongue before hurriedly shuffling to the side of the box furthest from me.  It’s petty and it’s childish, but it’s an improvement, I think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just that we traveled so very far from the palace and — please don’t take this the wrong way — I’ve grown to expect things here to be more modest in proportion.  The buildings, the ballrooms, the libraries...”  Allene lets her words dwindle and die, deflating like a sail going slack as the breeze abandons it.  She eyes me sheepishly as Ladies Fidelity and Clemence part around her to pass her by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile.  “Kindle Beach was once a different city, but as both it and Soliss spread, the two merged and became the sprawl it is today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the weather is certainly better on this end,” she replies, laughing.  ”I much prefer this to roasting alive in my tower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is your new wardrobe not helping, then?” I ask, dismayed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene waves a dismissive hand towards her garb.  “Oh, no, of course it is.  But there is only so much clothing can do, lovely as it might be.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gown today is pale and summery, a work of simple, elegant drapery fastened above and below the shoulders and belted at the waist.  Beneath her exposed shoulders, long, open swaths of fabric cascade to the floor.  Her hair has been done up in an effortless low bun peppered by tiny, gleaming pearls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look beautiful,” I murmur, quietly astounded by my good fortune all over again.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene smiles, bright and true, and leans in, her lips near brushing mine.  From the other side of the box comes a loud retching noise.  I glance up to find Feon as he mimes vomiting into a platter of fruit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know we’re here too, right?” he gripes, gesturing to himself, the captain, Connor, Jasper, and Allene’s ladies.  “This isn’t some gross couple’s retreat, we’re all stuck in here together until the ride home.”  Guilt plucks at my heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene rolls her eyes.  “Oh, get over yourself, you nasty little gremlin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a gremlin,” Feon quibbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then quit acting like one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue to bicker in this manner for some time.  I watch anxiously, uncertain if I should intercede.  I realize in time that there is no heat to their words.  For some reason, that still doesn’t set my mind at ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The private box is a long space of modest width that has been outfitted lavishly for the royal family: thick rugs and soft cushions and wide lounges and an offensively comfortable low daybed tucked away into a hidden nook behind a set of long, thin curtains that are just opaque enough to afford a modicum of privacy.  Overhead, roses grow wild and free, winding through the high arbor above, dampening the sun’s brilliance and casting the box into a soft, dappled shade.  The space is cooled by a number of discreet vented boxes, each filled with ice and set with a small fanning mechanism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The far end of the royal box culminates in a wide, open balcony that looks out upon the rest of the Titan Bowl — the arena and the stands and the open sky above.  I approach this end knowing that my time to venture from the shade and into the brilliant sunlight will soon arrive.  Jasper waits anxiously at my elbow, his fingers worrying at the hem of his tunic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much longer do you think we have?” I ask quietly, listing towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jasper peers down at the stadium below.  Just as he opens his mouth to reply, a horn blares somewhere in the distance.  Jasper jolts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” I say, “I needn’t have asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene appears at my other side.  “That will be us, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soon enough,” I reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and together we wait, watching as a troupe of two dozen marching musicians strides out into the belly of the bowl to perform a stirring anthem.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Titan Bowl is a monolithic structure hewn from the husk of a single, giant rock.  I can describe it only as either a very small mountain or a very large hill that somehow ruptured, its innards carved away by time or weather or magic.  Some say it is the corpse of some long dead golem, left to waste away into obscurity until we humans found it and transformed it into a stadium.  Feon once told me that this was a stupid idea and that it was “probably just a big, weird rock” (his words).  I’m undecided myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the stadium’s bowl sits the arena: a vast, circular area made of wooden slats ringed by a wide moat, its waters turned red by the clay of its banks.  Past this, there is a narrow strip of rock level enough to walk upon before it juts upwards to form the low wall at the arena’s perimeter.  This is where the stands begin — tiered stone seats covered in a jumble of brightly colored rugs and cushions and filled to bursting with laughing, cheering people.  The nearest seats are only slightly elevated above the bowl and portions of the stands are shaded by wide, retractable awnings of stretched cloth in Nadaran red.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are seats for the common folk and for the wealthy and for those in the crown’s favor, but the best seats are ours: the balcony end of our private box is host to a number of comfortable lounges, all with a good view of the arena.  Laid before this seating area is a set of steep stairs that leads down into a space that juts forward past where the awning’s shade ends, out into the sunlight in plain view of the stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is there that Allene and I move when the marching band quiets.  We stand together, her arm in mine, and wave and smile.  The sun is bright and hot on my face, a brilliance that sets my eyes to water as it nearly blinds me.  Feon stands at my other side, his shoulders slumped and his head turned away.  I have to nudge his foot with mine to remind him to raise his hand, for which I am rewarded with a half-hearted wave and a painful pinch to the tender spot just above my elbow.  I wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no means for us to speak to the crowd (for which I am incredibly thankful), but at the sight of us they cheer all the same.  I look out upon the faces of my people: beautiful and bright and lovely and made blurry by my tears.  And all throughout the stadium are roses: clinging, thriving vines that grow however they please, good sense be damned.  The whole structure has a half wild, half constructed feeling to it, a place only somewhat tamed by human hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we retreat up the narrow stairs and back into the shade, Allene leans into me and speaks: “Who is that for?”  She has to raise her voice to be heard over the tumult of cheering and the harmonic bellowing as the band starts up another tune.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”  I ask, rubbing discretely at my eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene points and I follow her finger forward, out over the arena, across to the opposite end of the stadium, where sits another grand box, the mirror of our own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I can answer, Feon cuts in: “Dragons.  Dragons other than me, that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can all but smell the excitement emanating from Allene as she practically vibrates in place.  “Oh!  Oh, wow!  Can we go meet with them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon throws himself down upon a lounge and spreads out across it like butter on a hot day.  “Probably not,” he says, his voice gone rancid with displeasure, “Since I can’t remember the last time a dragon actually came to one of these things — or at least, I can’t remember the last time they let us know if they did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever the optimist, Allene persists.  “Well, we could go check at the very least, couldn’t we?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If they wanted to meet with us, we would know,” Feon replies.  He crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from us to stare down at the arena below, where several dozen figures all clad in white have assembled.  Watching him, I feel uneasy, so I quickly turn away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit on the lounge beside Feon’s and soon Allene joins me.  The others file in, picking spots as they will: Lady Fidelity and Lady Clemence on one lounge and Jasper on another.  Before he sits, Jasper approaches each of us in turn to hand out a set of finely crafted opera glasses.  I nod to him in thanks and he smiles his small, quiet smile.  Captain Elske leans back against the wall and after a moment Connor joins her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, is there no trick to these, then?”  Allene peers down at the glasses in her hands, running her fingers over the delicate golden contours as she searches for some form of mechanism, magical or mundane.  “No optical adjustment or, I don’t know, some drachenglas innovation...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile and shake my head.  “No, there is no trick to them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s alright, then,” she replies, waving a hand dismissively.  “I brought my own!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sets the opera glasses down on a low table before us and from her pocket withdraws her own set of glasses.  They don’t look much different from the previous set, save that they have been wrought in silver and are perhaps a little overzealously decorated, all arcing filigree and jeweled roses — that is, until she begins to fiddle with  the ends of the barrels.  The line of roses at the barrels ends, which I’d assumed to only be aesthetic in nature, actually serve as hinges for a series of twin lenses that can be raised and lowered as desired.  After choosing her lenses, she holds the glasses to her eyes and fiddles with something on one end and I watch as the barrels slowly extend and retract until she seems satisfied with her adjustments.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There we are!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are they really so different?” I ask, leaning towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They take a bit of getting used to but, yes, they really are,” she replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to take her word for it, for at that moment the crowd’s excitement swells, a tide of cheering that rises from the ground crashes over us, enveloping all the stadium and its people.  Three doors open in the central wall and from them lines of contestants file out to fill the arena, the triumphant blaring of the band drowning out the sound of their feet and my words alike.  Each contestant bears a staff and are all dressed simply in white tunics and trousers with one sash tied about the head and another about the waist.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even from this distance, Sir Sieglinde is impossible to miss.  She stands head and shoulders above the others, looking for all the world like an amiable mountain looming over a grove of trees, her head and waist tied with sashes of a clear sky blue.  When I put the gilt opera glasses to my eyes, I can see the tension in her shoulders and the flush on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are those little colored baubles on the ends of the staffs?” Allene asks, raising her voice to be heard over the band.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re dye pouches,” I reply.  When she shoots me an unsatisfied glance, I continue.  “It’s easier seen than explained.  Just wait.  You’ll get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she replies, not sounding convinced, but she turns back to watch the proceedings all the same.  After a moment, she straightens and exclaims, “Oh, oh!  There’s Lysithea!”  She beams widely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I peer through my opera glasses but don’t see her until the contestants have all fallen into neat ranks facing our box and have sunk down to a knee.  Lady Ballard kneels more slowly than the rest and she does not lower her head.  Her silver hair gleams like a freshly polished rapier in the cool morning light.  She wears sashes in a sleek gray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene grins and waves animatedly down to her friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, you know,” Feon sneers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if fate is determined to prove him wrong, in that moment Lysithea looks up towards the royal box and blows a cheeky kiss in our direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah!” Allene says, grinning.  “What was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blare of the trumpet sounds again and the contestants rise to their feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon gnashes his teeth.  “Well, obviously she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that this is where you’d be, considering it’s the royal box and also we just got done doing the whole — you know.”  He mimes smiling and waving, his grin forced and stiff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the conversation can devolve into more bickering, I interject.  “Where is Brennard?  Has anyone seen what color he received?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Orange,” Captain Elske answers immediately.  I follow her pointing finger to somewhere in the middle of the ranks, where Brennard stands tall and rigid, his chest puffed out, his hand clutching his staff.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, he looks awful,” Connor says, laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He looks nervous,” Jasper says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He looks like he’s about to shit himself,” Feon replies gleefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One by one, the rows of contestants peel away into their neat formation, striding purposefully back out through the doors from whence they came.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Allene exclaims.  “There’s someone else with Sir Sieglinde’s color — the light blue!  Why is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are two, actually,” I reply, “Three over all, including Sir Sieglinde.  One for each heat.  You’ll see.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene pulls a face.  “‘You’ll see,’” she repeats, mimicking me.  “I’m certain you’re having quite a bit of fun keeping me in the dark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” I say, laughing when she shoves my shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the last of the contestants has exited, a low whirring sound begins from deep in the bowl.  Curved wooden panels rise slowly from the perimeter of the arena, angling in as they ascend so that they meet in the center to form a low dome, something akin to the fat bottom of an egg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is going on?” Allene demands, her voice risen half an octave and gone all stretched and breathy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re setting the arena for the first heat,” I explain.  “Just — wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m getting very sick of this, Caederyn,” Allene replies, her face pinched by a frown, her dark eyes narrowed.  “This is not at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> charming, I hope you know that.”  She must see something in my face, then, for she hastily leans in towards me and lays a hand upon my knee.  “Oh, no, babe, I’m not angry with you — but this </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> rather frustrating, you know.”  Her breath is warm against my ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I reply, “It’s just that it’s better seen than—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene makes an aggrieved sound and slumps backwards and away from me.  My throat constricts and my chest tenses.  There is no chance for silence between us for the band’s playing is much too loud, but I feel an awkwardness still.  Glancing away, I catch Feon’s eye.  Head tilted back, he stares down his nose at me, his mouth drawn in a sloping line.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I am all too grateful for the surging roar of the crowd that draws us both away as those wooden panels retract, revealing the arena anew.  No longer is it a plane of flat, slatted wood.  There, cradled in the stadium’s bowl, sits a swamp, its waters peppered by low trees and narrow swaths of land piled high with tall grasses and sprawling greenery.  With the water’s surface near entirely covered in a layer of spongy green algae, it is difficult to tell where the land ends and the water begins and it is impossible to tell just how deep the water goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty contestants all in white stand evenly dispersed about the swamp’s perimeter.  There is a long moment when the band’s playing cuts to silence and the crowd’s cheering ebbs away.  I can hear the catch in Allene’s breath as she stares down, rapt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How—” she begins, her entire body gone taut as she leans forward, perching upon the settee’s edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A horn blares, loud and bright, and all at once the contestants move, plunging into the swamp as the crowd’s cheering swells behind them.  Immediately, I see one contestant, a burly man with thinning black hair and a lime green sash, turn and rush headlong towards the contestant closest to him.  He barrels into her, scoring two swift blows to her shoulder and gut, each leaving behind a punch of bright green dye upon her white tunic.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stumbles backwards and narrowly recovers her balance before darting to the side.  The man runs for her again and this time she evades the blow, one leg sliding forward to slyly trip the man as he pivots towards her.  He goes down quick and he goes down hard, tumbling headlong into the shallow waters.  The woman deftly strikes him three times in the back, her staff leaving behind three round stamps in teal.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A trumpet sounds, the first of this heat, and when the man stands his face has gone an ugly, festering purple.  He stomps out of the arena and directly into the surrounding moat.  He surfaces moments later and clambers out, rust-colored water streaming down his body, his white clothing dyed a rich clay red.  Another horn sounds and the woman in teal swiftly joins him, a single splotch of bright violet blooming high on her sternum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Brennard!” Allene gasps.  “Oh no!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes race back to the arena, scanning hastily across the swamp in search of that bright pop of orange.  I find him fending off a combatant in yellow sashes near the swamp’s center.  Brennard bears one mark in yellow — a recent one, judging by Allene’s reaction — and as I watch, his staff glances against his opponent’s side, marking him in orange for the second time.  The two circle each other warily, neither willing to make the first move.  The line of Brennard’s body is taut with purpose, his eyes never leaving his opponent — and that is his mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps sideways, continuing the arc of his path, and his foot plunges clean away through a twisted cluster of vines and leaves and into the algae crusted water.  His opponent’s staff snakes forward and between the blow and the water, Brennard chooses the water.  I loose a long, low groan as Brennard goes tumbling sideways into the swamp, his opponent’s staff so close to his chest that I can’t tell whether or not it connected.  The man in yellow straightens, the slope of his shoulders turned confident as he waits for Brennard to resurface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he’s fucked,” Feon cackles, “Taking a dunk is always a death sentence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you didn’t like watching humans fight,” Allene replies.  “I thought you said it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>normally,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Feon replies.  I can’t see his face but I can hear the sound of him rolling his eyes in his voice.  “But watching Brennard eat shit is my hobby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t count him out just yet,” Connor says, her voice low and amused.  Beside her, the captain stands, silent and intent, her arms crossed stiffly over her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did anyone see if that hit connected?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Allene answers.  “I mean — I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer we wait for Brennard to return, the more tense the moment grows.  It stretches long enough that we hear another three horns blare, long enough that Brennard’s opponent begins to pace along the water’s edge, testing the ground with every step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he—” Jasper begins, but whatever he was going to say is cut off, bisected as Brennard surges out of the water like a rising tide, algae clinging to his body, his once neat coif of hair plastered to his scowling face.  His staff punches directly into his opponent’s gut, sending him reeling backwards before he can get a blow in edgewise.  The man falls heavily to the ground.  The sound of the horn pierces the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor claps the captain on the shoulder and grins.  “Look at that.  The kid’s got some wiles in him after all, who’d’ve known!”  She laughs, hearty and full-bellied, her mangy head thrown back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it didn’t hit!” Jasper says excitedly.  “Look, he only has one mark!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Below, a beleaguered looking Brennard wades towards a patch of land, his movements slow and sluggish, his chest puffing and his face flushed, the algae breaking in his wake.  He looks terrible, but Jasper is right: his opponent’s weapon didn’t find its mark a second time.  Brennard finds a good spot in the shore and heaves himself upwards.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can get to his feet, a streak of brown darts forward from a patch of nearby tall grass and a blotch of orchil dye blooms upon his sternum.  The shove sends him reeling, his hands flailing as they fail to find purchase.  His back hits the water and I suck in a sharp breath.  The grass shifts and I watch through my glasses as a small, pointy face pokes out from between the rushes, a violet sash tied around their brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brennard resurfaces red-faced and spluttering, his overstuffed body rising from the water, green algae clinging to his head and shoulders.  The violet combatant watches him, assessing, and for several moments their eyes lock.  Brennard hesitates.  I am keenly aware of the disadvantage his position poses.  When next I look back at the rushes, Brennard’s assailant is gone, the grass empty and rustling gently in the breeze.  He heads for the opposite shore and is quickly waylaid by an opponent in navy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fool of a boy, he should have gotten out while he had the chance,” Captain Elske says, her teeth gritted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to climb out of the swamp without presenting an opening, Brennard fends off combatants while sunk down to his waist in the water.  He picks them off one by one, his staff darting out in vicious jabs that leave behind stamps of brilliant orange.  The horn sounds again and again as he holds his ground, or lack thereof, his skin slicked by sweat or water or some combination of the two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Booooo!” Feon jeers loudly, his hands cupped over his mouth.  “Hurry up and lose you big, brainless baby.  I’m boooooored!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A trumpet blares as Brennard lands the last blow on an older woman outfitted in a brilliant, true blue.  As she jogs out of the arena and jumps into the red moat, the trumpet sounds again, high and bright, sustaining the note until, slowly, the rest of the band joins in.  I glance to the arena’s edge, to the part of the wall where a dozen odd people stand, their skin and clothing dyed red.  When the woman joins them, she makes for fifteen.  The music swells, a buoy of brass exuberance tethered only by the bass of the drums and the rush of the crowd’s cheering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brennard looks up at the sky one last time before collapsing forward on to the nearby shore, his entire body going slack as his chest labors for breath.  After a long moment, he heaves himself out of the water on trembling arms and exits the arena, joining the other four contestants whose tunics remain white.  Each of them bears a violet mark and one even bears two — all save for the wearer of the violet sash, whose tunic I assume to be unmarred until she turns to show a single splotch of bright red dye situated low upon her back.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone amongst them, Brennard is drenched, his body crusted with green algae, his cowlicked hair drying in a mockery of its usual pristine form.  He looks exhausted, but his posture is impeccable nonetheless.  I glance back at the captain and find her standing straight, the mirror of her nephew, her arms still crossed over her chest, but the hardness in her eyes is gone.  Pride tugs at one side of her mouth, pulling it into the barest hint of a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside me, Allene is applauding and laughing.  “So, that’s the round, then?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” I reply, clapping, “Those five will qualify for the bracketed fights, as will five each from the second and third heats.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, I can’t believe he made it through,” Feon laments.  “I wanted to see how he’d look after taking a dunk in the moat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad he made it,” Jasper says, barely loud enough to be heard over the band.  The contestants have filed off the field and the arena is once again encased in its large, wooden dome.  “He’s worked really hard for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon heaves a disgusted sigh that rustles the golden curls hanging over his brow.  “Yeah, I guess I can always just push him in later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Feon.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I still.  Allene mirrors me, her body freezing, her mouth open the same as mine, our admonishment spoken in tandem.  I glance back towards her and meet her warm eyes.  She smiles, just a bit, a helplessly amused tilt to her brows, and then begins to laugh.  I don’t feel at all the same and the smile I produce is unconvincing at best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look away hastily and find Feon staring at the both of us.  He’s scowling, his nose crinkled as his face contorts.  “Ew,” he says, and then, for emphasis, “Gross.”  With a final eye roll, he turns away from us and throws his body over the far arm of his couch, leaving the end closest to us empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I look towards Allene once more, I find her smiling in that soft, fond way, her eyes fixed on my dragon’s slouched form.  Something inside me twists.  All of a sudden, the rush of the crowd and the clamor of the band sound rather quiet to my ears.  Allene glances my way and her smile broadens.  She reaches forward and squeezes my hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to get some refreshments,” I say, and stand.  “Would you like anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene shrugs.  “I’ll have a little bit of whatever you’re having.”  When I’m several paces away, she hastily adds: “Oooh, and some tea, please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod and retreat further into the depths of the royal box.  I take my time picking out refreshments, lingering over the fruit platter longer than is strictly necessary.  On my return, I pause briefly in front of the settee that seats the Ladies Fidelity and Clemence.  Lady Fidelity sits with her legs crossed, a small embroidery hoop perched in her lap, her clever fingers weaving the thread in and out of the fabric.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you sewing today, Lady Fidelity?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances up at me, her needle paused midway through a stitch, her sun-kissed face going vaguely red.  “Oh, n-nothing of consequence, Your Grace,” she replies.  Today, her coppery hair has been parted down the center and braided in two lines down the top of her head, each culminating in a small bun.  Little wisps of red hair have escaped all around her face.  Betwixt her fingers, I can make out the glinting of rich threads in gold and blue and pink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s embroidering a mermaid, Your Grace,” Lady Clemence says, her lips pursed together either in annoyance or in an attempt to contain a smile (I can’t tell which).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Fidelity’s face goes somehow redder still, though how that is possible I am not certain, and she hastily hugs the embroidery hoop to her chest.  “Ow!”  She jolts in place and when she drops the hoop to her lap, I spy a small prick of red blood just above the neckline of her dress.  She presses a thumb to the blood and then sucks it into her mouth.  The embroidery hoops goes tumbling out of her lap and down to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, beans!” she exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she can bend over, I set down my plate and cup on a nearby table and kneel before Lady Fidelity and pick up her fallen hoop.  It is, indeed, a depiction of a mermaid.  She sits reclined upon a green shore, surrounded by a bed of roses, her tail and skin peppered with gilt scales made of tiny, glittering beads, her long, golden hair decorated with roses and pearls.  Her arms are raised, her hands combing through those golden waves, her head tilted to one side.  She has a sweet face, the sort I’d expect to find decorating the pages of fable books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I glance up at Lady Fidelity, the hoop held out towards her in my hand, she looks utterly mortified.  She snatches her embroidery out of my grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” she stammers weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile and reach into a pocket and withdraw something — a half done carving of a swiftwyrm.  “I have brought a small project of my own,” I confess, handing it over to her.  “Mine is not nearly so sophisticated as yours, but it gives me something to do with my hands and I rather enjoy it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Fidelity takes the carving in hand and turns it round and round, her fingers skimming the grooves, her head bowing forward.  “It’s wonderful, Your Grace,” she says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not much of anything yet,” I reply, taking the carving when she proffers it back towards me and pocketing it.  She nods and watches as I reclaim my refreshments and leave.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take my seat beside Allene and hand her the cup of tea.  She takes a sip, her brown hands cupped around its circumference, her dark eyes peering up at me from over the rim.  I set the plate of food between us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was a little bit lovely, what you did right there,” Allene says.  She leans in close to me so that only I can hear it.  Her breath is warm against the shell of my ear.  She smells like the sweet prickly pear in her tea.  I smile and eat an orange slice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, the wooden panels of the dome descend once more and the next stage is revealed.  In stark contrast to the foggy marsh of the first heat, this setting lacks any essence of the natural world.  The arena has been transformed into a maze of thin, rectangular panels that glint a blinding silver in the brilliant sunlight.  Each one reaches a full two feet higher than the tallest of the contestants.  I scan the figures stationed periodically around the arena’s perimeter and confirm my suspicion — Sir Sieglinde is not in this heat either.  Likely, she was deemed to be too tall for her inclusion to be in any way fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, it’s just a maze, then?” Allene asks, frowning as she peers through the long barrels of her glasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suspect there’s more to it than that,” I reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene doesn’t seem to pay me much mind.  She continues to scan the arena below before suddenly coming to a stop.  “Oh!  There she is!  Lysithea!”  Laughing, she cups her free hand to her mouth and gives a loud whoop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hurriedly put my opera glasses to my eyes once more and search for the Larish lady.  I find her on the left side of the field, her silver hair gleaming like a beacon under the sleek gray sash tied about her forehead.  She stands calmly, her posture straight-backed and confident, her staff rested nonchalantly on one shoulder.  The horn blares clear and bright, cutting through the crowd’s cheering, and the contestants are off.  Lady Ballard moves quickly, darting into the maze without a second’s hesitation, and it is then that the maze’s nature is revealed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Allene exclaims breathlessly.  “Oh, they’re mirrors!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the contestants enter the maze, the brilliant silver of the panels is interrupted by the reflections of their bodies.  It isn’t long before I spy one of the contestants run full tilt into a mirror.  They collide with it face first and ricochet backwards.  Immediately, a staff darts out from one side and the fallen fighter receives three swift stamps in cool gray.  The horn blares loud and true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon cackles loudly.  “Solene’s tits, did you see that guy?  Imagine not only being the first one out, but losing to Lysithea — after full-faced eating shit, no less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with losing to Lysithea?” Allene asks reproachfully.  “She’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> skilled swordsman.  There should be no shame in being bested by her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I mean, she’s not bad </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Feon replies.  “It’s just that she sucks, like, personally.  You know.  Her personality.  It’s bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene picks a blueberry from off my plate and chucks it at Feon.  It hits him square on the cheek and bounces off.  “Oh, shut up,” Allene says.  Strangely, she sounds less annoyed than I would have presumed.  There’s laughter buried somewhere in her voice, a bubble of good humor that overwrites her words.  “As if you’ve got a leg to stand on, you overripe flamingo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon whips his glasses away from his eyes and turns to glare at Allene.  His face is red and his eyes are narrowed.  He wipes at his cheek with the back of one hand.  “I have a wonderful personality,” he snipes, his nose wrinkled in disgust.  “Don’t blame me for your lack of taste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, seeing as how I’m rather fond of the both of you, I imagine my lack of taste must say much about your disposition,” Allene replies loftily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!! Well!!”  Feon opens his mouth and then closes it again several times before heaving a loud sigh and turning from us to slouch low in his seat.  He crosses one arm over his chest and with the other raises the opera glasses to his eyes.  I’ve never before seen him so easily give up on getting the last word in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By my side, Allene has already turned her attention back to the match below.  I watch her face for a moment, watch the subtle smile on her lips, the questing of her head as she searches the arena below.  During the time it took Allene and Feon to have their — spat? conversation? (I’m not certain what to call it) — another few horns have sounded and a total of six people have exited the ring to dunk themselves into the red moat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know from my conversations with Allene and from the revelation of Feon’s disguise that something in their relationship has changed.  I should feel relived to see them coexisting peacefully.  I might even dare to say that they seem to be getting along in some strange way.  I don’t know what I feel about that.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wish, not for the first time, that I could talk honestly with Feon.  Though we may never have been particularly skilled at communication in the first place, it was never like this.  We never kept each other out.  We never kept secrets.  I always knew what he was feeling and could reasonably extrapolate from that what he was thinking and why.  It was annoying, sometimes, and exhausting in a deeply intimate way, but there was a comfort to it as well.  I could rest easy knowing that I knew him and he knew me and though we might not always align, we would try.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems now that he is changing and though this is something I maybe had wished for in the past, I have the horrible sinking feeling that perhaps I do not know him very well at all anymore.  Perhaps I never did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does anyone see Lysithea?” Allene asks.  “I can’t find her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of the rest of us can either.  I scan the arena and the red-dyed contestants on the sidelines and don’t find her anywhere.  I watch with mingled consternation and amusement as one of the remaining contestants fails three times to move forward — each time running into a different mirror — before they lose all patience and begin to attack the panel in front of them with the butt of their staff.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside me, Allene is fiddling with her glasses again, periodically swapping out different combinations of lenses and peering down over the arena.  She continues this fruitlessly for several minutes, during which time another two contestants are eliminated and Feon is loudly complaining about the lack of active bloodshed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, oh!  I think I found her!”  Allene’s face falls into a bright grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?” I ask quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene raises a hand to point and then falters and frowns.  “I thought...”  She hesitates, turning her head this way and that for several moments as she slowly deflates.  “I thought I saw her...”  She shifts in her seat, squirming and nearly upsetting the plate between us.  I hastily pick it up and place it on a small table off to one side.  “It must have been a trick of the light — all the mirrors, you know, they’re quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>aren’t they?  I must have seen some reflection of the sun and taken it for the twinkling of her hair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Booooo,” Feon calls out again.  “I wanna watch Lysithea get an ass kicking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene grasps blindly behind her for another small fruit to throw at Feon and comes up empty handed.  Feon, not realizing, quickly ducks down under the lip of his lounge’s arm.  Allene snorts and settles back into her seat to watch the tournament.  Not long after, she straightens and leans forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see something moving — there, in the other box,” she says, gesturing across the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit up as well and peer through my glasses.  “I don’t see anything,” I reply, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where??” Feon demands, his voice coming out hard and eager.  He leaps to his feet, the lines of his body gone as taut as a noose, and stares through his glasses so intently I think they might catch fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the box—” Allene begins, but Feon cuts her off with a frustrated growl.  A small plume of smoke curls from the corner of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he hisses.  “But I don’t.  See.  Anything.”  His voice is tight, each word forced out between clenched teeth.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whips the glasses from his eyes and tosses them carelessly aside before diving down to join us on the lounge, squeezing his way between Allene and I and forcing us apart.  I can feel the heat of him where his thigh presses against mine as he leans over Allene and wrestles her strange silver-barreled glasses away from her.  It’s the closest we’ve been to each other in ages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow!” Allene exclaims as Feon shoves her aside, her glasses held triumphantly in one hand.  “I would have given them to you if you just asked, you garbage goose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon flaps a hand in her face, his fingers just brushing her skin, as his other hand raises Allene’s glasses to his eyes.  He perches on the edge of the seat, his back rigid as he leans forward and stares out across the arena.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must see something, for he soon says, “I’m going out for a bit.  See you nerds later,” and hastily drops Allene’s glasses in her lap before springing to his feet and pelting down the length of the royal box before any of us can so much as blink.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene fumbles and nearly drops the glasses and I only just barely manage to catch them for her.  Our fingers brush.  She smiles at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I take a look, Allene?” I ask.  I hold the handles for one set of glasses in each hand — mine in my left and Allene’s in my right.  I feel a little silly.  Allene nods and I raise the silver glasses to my eyes and search out whatever it is she and Feon both saw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing I notice is that the magnification is considerably stronger than on my own glasses.  It sends me reeling at first as I stare out across a wobbling landscape incurred by my own inability to hold still.  I have to hastily remove the glasses and take a moment to close my eyes and feel quietly nauseous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too strong?” Allene asks sympathetically.  I nod and place my own glasses upon the lounge so that I can hold my stomach for a second.  “It does take some getting used to — I’m sorry, I forgot, or I’d have warned you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” I croak.  “Just a bit unexpected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath and try again.  This time, the nausea is not so bad, though I still find the entire endeavor uncomfortable.  It takes me some time to position myself correctly so that I find the opposite box within my view, as even the slightest of movements on my part sends my vision jumping much further than is necessary.  I realize, too, that there is some sort of warping over the lens — a subtle film or a flaw in the glasswork that causes the air to shimmer and dance like the dreamy opalescence of a soap bubble.  It is — once again — rather nauseating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lower the glasses and have to lean forward, my elbows pressed to my knees, my hands cupping my forehead, the metal of the glasses’ handle biting into the skin of my face.  I close my eyes and take several deep breaths in an attempt to settle myself.  I can feel the first hints of a headache beginning at the backs of my eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Allene says again.  “Oh, Caederyn, give those here.  I promise whatever we saw was not so interesting that you need suffer for it.  I don’t even know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was — more likely than not, it was no more than a trick of the light.  Anyway, if there’s anything to it, I’m certain Feon will be more than happy to rub it in our faces that he was the one to find it and not us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snort and lower my hand to pass the silver glasses back to their rightful owner.  Another horn blares and I jolt in my seat.  Allene laughs and pats my arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, babe, please...” she says and leans her forehead into my shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abashed, I hastily resume my spectating of the tournament.  “How many is that now?” I ask. “How many are left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thirteen out, seven left,” Captain Elske answers immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s — fast,” I say, taken aback.  The captain nods.  “Any sign of Lady Ballard?  Has she been disqualified?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” the captain replies.  “I’ve seen her mark on a number of washouts before they took the dive, but I’ve yet to spot her.  She’s a slippery one.”  Underneath the stoicism, she sounds grudgingly impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d love to get my hands on her,” Connor says and cracks her knuckles loudly, a wide grin slowly spreading across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy,” Captain Elske says, her voice coming out sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To </span>
  <em>
    <span>fight,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Captain,” Connor replies, her grin turned wicked.  “What, did you think I meant something else?  She’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not much younger than myself,” Allene interjects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor eyes her for a moment, her grin slowly growing into a lear, and says, “I think I’m a bit old for you as well.  Your Grace.”  The pause between the sentence and the formal address is long and awkward.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agree,” Allene says coolly, “But that doesn’t mean I wish to be infantilized.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apologies, Your Grace.”  Connor makes a low, sweeping bow that still doesn’t manage to look entirely sincere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene sighs and turns back to the match, but my gaze lingers.  I watch out of my periphery as the captain says something to Connor — something too low for me to hear.  From the harshness of her expression, I don’t expect it to be all together kind.  Still, Connor doesn’t seem to mind.  She leans in close to the captain and whispers something in her ear.  Arms crossed, Captain Elske’s fingers dig into her biceps and the look on her face is hard as rock.  Still, rock can be eroded.  I have the uncomfortable feeling that I am looking at something much too private and so I hastily look away.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not long before the next two competitors are disqualified and the final horn sounds.  When Lady Ballard joins the other four finalists, Allene jumps to her feet and gives a loud whoop of excitement.  Everyone applauds politely.  I wonder if it’s just my imagination or if the crowd’s cheering is somewhat less spirited than it was earlier.  Perhaps that’s just what I want to hear.  After all, I don’t much like having to clap for Lady Ballard.  A part of me even laments the absence of Feon’s jeering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking through my opera glasses, I see that Lady Ballard’s crisp white tunic has gone completely unblemished, not a single mark upon her.  She is the only one thusly unmarred.  The competitors exit the field and the arena is eclipsed by its dome once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think the next one will be?  Or are they always the same?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I reply, “They change them up every time.  There are a few crowd favorites, of course — I’m surprised we haven’t seen a quicksand arena.  That one is always very popular.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that will be the third stage, then,” Allene says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, but I doubt it.  Typically the most complicated set up is reserved for the first heat, because logistically—”  I’m cut off by the rumble of the crowd and a cacophony of horns.  I glance over the area and see that the dome is already descending.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, wow!  That was fast!” Allene exclaims.  “Oh, but it’s — hmm.  Has there been a mistake of some sort?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next stage revealed is completely ordinary: just a flat circle made up of short wooden slats arranged in crisscrossed squares.  The twenty competitors arranged around the stage’s perimeter have completely unobstructed views of one other — and there, on the far side, is Sir Sieglinde, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other as she towers over her competitors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I — I don’t think so,” I reply.  “Sometimes they do run a simple free for all — though not typically with multiple heats, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m cut off by the blare of the horn and hastily we all end our chatting to observe the goings on below.  Sir Sieglinde makes for the largest target by far and is immediately accosted by a number of other contestants.  She fends them off deftly, the long staff’s weight nearly negligible in her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Laws, she’s good!” Allene exclaims breathily.  “I knew she had to be, but — wow!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde advances and thrusts her staff forward, painting an opponent with their third mark in cheery sky blue and thus disqualifying them.  In the same fluid motion, she pivots and drives the butt of her staff back into the gut of the goldenrod-clad man behind her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It earns her no points, but it sends the man lurching backwards towards the edge of the arena.  He stumbles back and as his heel comes down behind him, the section of wooden slats there gives beneath him and falls away.  He teeters for a moment, his arms windmilling wildly, before toppling backwards into rust red water.  A moment later, he surfaces, his face and clothing dyed that deep clay red.  A horn blares.  He pulls himself up out of the water and makes for the arena’s edge.  He’d only had one mark on his tunic before, but his fall to the water has instantly disqualified him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All around the arena, sections of the flooring fall away, sinking into the red waters and taking several combatants down with them.  Horns blare one after the other as the remaining fighters are forced into closer quarters by the shrinking stage.  Sir Sieglinde swipes a leg out from under an opponent and sends them tumbling down into the water.  She draws back to one side, narrowly avoiding getting stamped by a man sashed in black, and drives her staff into his gut and sends him over the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde clears out one opponent after another, neatly punting them into the red waters’ waiting embrace, her superior strength overwhelming all those around her.  She is given no reprieve, for though she presents an intimidating foe, her staggering size makes her into a large target.  She is near constantly surrounded by foes, all of them trying to sneak in a blow as she steadily plows through their numbers.  Even from this distance, I can see the glistening sheen of sweat rising high on her pink face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time the first blow is landed upon her, there are only eight competitors left and the stage is more water than it is wood.  A woman with deep brown hair manages to glance her shoulder and dark red dye blooms there.  Sir Sieglinde quickly counters, managing to land two marks on her opponent before she draws away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Sir Sieglinde turns to face her next foe, she jolts in place, her body dropping an inch or so, as the plank beneath her gives way.  Allene gasps.  Sir Sieglinde just manages to leap off the sinking board and land, crouched on all fours, her back rounded like a bear’s.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, she is beset.  The first man who comes for her receives an upward blow to the gut that clean lifts him off his feet.  He topples like an upended turtle, all the breath forced out of him in one painful movement, and a woman with clay brown sashes strikes from the other side.  Sir Sieglinde blocks her blow with such force that it disarms her and sends her brown-clad staff skittering across the stage.  The woman dives to the side and snatches up her weapon and earns a stamp in the shoulder from Sir Sieglinde before the knight is drawn into another skirmish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two horns blare in quick succession as a pair of contestants drag each other down into the water together, leaving the remaining count down to six.  Tension steels my gut.  The crowd is a storm of thunderous applause, a clamor of whoops and cheers and laughter.  Allene is holding my hand so tightly that it hurts and I don’t even remember when she took my hand to begin with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no room to breathe, no time for hesitation.  The ring is tight now, a tiny island in a sea of red water, host to a fierce six-way battle.  Sir Sieglinde is beset by three of their number and she manages to give them each their second mark and receives one of her own in return.  As two of them rush her, she is forced to cede a small amount of ground, just enough to draw out of their range and knock them away — and it is too much.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heel comes down on a plank that is already falling.  She lurches back, her arms reaching out to nothing, a look of surprise on her big, open face.  Sir Sieglinde goes down gracelessly.  In her last moments before disqualification, she thrusts one arm forward and throws her staff clear across the stage.  It just manages to glance the shoulder of a woman in yellow sashes.  Sir Sieglinde his the water like an avalanche.  Red water splashes so high and far that little droplets pelt the other contestants.  A horn blares.  The others quickly pick up the note.  Sir Sieglinde surfaces, bright red and laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she make it?” Allene asks breathlessly.  “Who got out first — her, or the yellow—”  She ends her sentence abruptly, her mouth hanging open as the contestant in yellow pivots, her arms akimbo, and shows off her tunic: two blooms of dye, one in lime green and the other in Sir Sieglinde’s sky blue.  Allene’s optimism bleeds out on a sigh that slowly deflates her entire body.  “Oh, no...” she whispered.  “Oh, poor Sir Sieglinde...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We all watch as Sir Sieglinde clambers out of the water and joins the other disqualified contestants at the edge of the arena.  They seem to strike up a conversation and soon she is laughing and smiling with the lot of them, clasping each of their hands in turn and clapping them on their shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She did very well,” Lady Fidelity says, her voice gone a bit wobbly.  She sniffs loudly and when I glance her way I spy her covertly wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t count her out just yet,” Connor says.  She’s looking over the qualified competitors with a keen eye.  “What do you think, Captain?  Did she make it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance back to look at the captain.  Her lips are pursed in thought and her head is tilted slightly back.  “If she didn’t, she’s close,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Far below, all sixty competitors are streaming back out onto a newly reconstructed arena.  They split into their three groups, one for each, and at the front stand the qualified contestants, resplendent in white (with small splashes of other colors) against the others’ full-bodied red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” asks Allene as a three arbiters in black take their places at the heads of each group and begin to tally the strikes upon the winning competitors.  I mouth along silently as I count with them.  Allene leans forward until her face blocks the arena from view.  She frowns up at me.  “Caederyn, tell me what is going on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re counting up the marks on the finalists — Allene, please, I want to—”  I cut myself off at the look on her face.  Still, she finally straightens, though she looks no less displeased with me.  “Whosoever landed the most strikes on their qualifying competitors will also qualify — it evens out the number from fifteen to sixteen and creates incentive for contestants to be bold and judicial in their choice of opponents and to not simply hide and try to outlast their fellows in stages where that is possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene exhales a long “ohhh” and then joins me in looking over the competitors below.  After a moment, she says: “Oh, no, Sir Sieglinde didn’t make it.  The violet contestant in the first heat has the most marks.”  She points and I follow her gaze.  I redo my count and come to the same conclusion.  I sigh and slump back in my seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look again,” Captain Elske says.  “That fighter has already qualified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do look again and after a moment I spot her: slight and fox-faced and never entirely still.  She stands beside Brennard, one foot set to tapping while she looks out over the crowd.  Somehow I missed her before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then Sir Sieglinde—” I begin, just as the band rouses itself into a tumult of sound.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the arbiters bows to Sir Sieglinde and leads her from the ranks of the disqualified into the line of finalists, a single, massive red-dyed figure amongst fifteen others in white.  They all shake hands and make nice before leaving the field out the doors from whence they came.  I let out a pleased laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside me, Allene is whooping and cheering, her glasses discarded as she stands and applauds enthusiastically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brilliant!” she exclaims.  “Oh, Caed, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> pleased.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene lets out another loud whoop and dances in place.  It’s a compelling sight.  Beaming and bright-faced, she half jumps, half shimmies, her arms raised over her head.  A small curl has come loose from her bun.  It skims the curve of her neck.  The fine drapery of her dress shifts and flutters with her movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment later, Allene glances over her shoulder and catches my eye.  She falters, just for a moment, and a sweet grin spreads across her lips.  She pivots and grabs my hands with her own and pulls me up next to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here, you,” she says breathily.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I go easily.  I can never resist her, not when she’s like this.  She is a beacon, a lantern in the dark, and I am helplessly drawn to her light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady—” a voice cuts in.  Together, we still and glance towards the speaker — Lady Clemence.  Allene’s fingers curl gently into my hips.  “Lady Fidelity and I have decided to take a look around now that there is a lull in the action.”  She looks to Captain Elske for confirmation.  The captain nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s much to see and do,” Jasper says.  He approaches and stands a respectful distance from Lady Clemence.  “I’d be happy to accompany you, my ladies.  It will be crowded and it is easy to get lost — but it is well worth it.  There will be stalls with clothing and trinkets and games and all manner of things, but perhaps best are the food vendors — aloo tikki and koulouri thessalonikis and bhelpuri and kebabs and funnel cake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Funnel cake.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The phrase is uttered so forcefully that it is nearly a texture.  I look up to see Lady Fidelity standing at Lady Clemence’s shoulder, her eyes wide and bright, her breath coming in quick, short bursts as if she’s just sprinted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jasper smiles kindly.  “I take it you are fond of them, my lady?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Fidelity goes a bit pink and shifts back on her heels.  “It’s just — it’s been a while.  It’s not really the sort of thing they serve at Whithelm Castle.  It — it’s nostalgic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Princess Allene, Prince Caederyn — will either of you be joining us?” Jasper asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene sighs and shakes her head.  “Oh, Jasper, I’d love to, but I don’t think my dress would make it through unscathed.”  She gestures sadly down to the thin, diaphanous drapery that clothes her.  The material is fine and silky and pale.  It looks as if it could be ripped apart with next to no effort.  “You’ll have to tell me all about it — and bring me back some goodies, of course.”  She grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll stay with you,” I volunteer.  “I’ve been many times before and, besides, I could use a moment of respite.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene turns her dazzling smile upon me.  “That’s very sweet of you, Caederyn.”  The tips of her fingers brush mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain,” I say quickly, turning my gaze towards her.  “Why don’t you accompany them as well?  I believe Jasper will do a fine job guiding them, but I’d feel more at ease with someone to guard them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there some threat of danger?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, nothing specific — just —”  I cut my words short and glance at the captain.  She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is standard to provide some form of escort for such excursions as a certain amount of chaos is often inevitable,” the captain says.  “Unless, of course, you would prefer to be unaccompanied.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Fidelity shakes her head quickly.  “No!  I mean.  It’s fine.  I mean, I appreciate it.  I—”  As Lady Fidelity continues to flounder, she shoots a helpless look towards her friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What Lady Fidelity means is that we’d be grateful to be under your care,” Lady Clemence says coolly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Lady Fidelity says hurriedly.  “That.”  Her face has broken out in a sheen of bright, glistening sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jasper offers his arm to Lady Fidelity, who takes it gratefully, and after a moment, Lady Clemence and the captain join arms as well.  With the both of them standing together they look like two walls, one of rough, sturdy brick, the other a sleek and cool marble, the captain’s stoicism matched by Lady Clemence’s serenity.  They make an oddly handsome couple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the group departs, they pass Connor, who is leaning languidly back against a wall.  She shoots the captain a grin — or perhaps it would be more accurately described as a leer.  I realize belatedly that perhaps Connor would have been the better choice to accompany the group as she’d be more likely to enjoy the hubbub and the crowd, but in truth I’d forgotten she was an option.  That woman is many things and strong is certainly one of them, but I’d hardly consider her reliable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I should have asked if you would rather have acted as escort than stay here,” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor glances back at me, one brow quirked, that strange, sloping grin on her wolffish face.  “Don’t sweat it, kid.  Part of the job description is you not needing to consider my feelings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” I say stiffly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At my side, Allene suppresses a small laugh.  I shoot her a sidelong glance and find her tight lipped and full cheeked as she tries very hard not to smile.  She threads both her arms around one of mine and leans into me.  She is so warm and she smells so very sweet.  It is imminently distracting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Grace, I think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a request, after all,” Connor says.  As ever, the title of deference comes unnaturally to her.  I glance back at her and wait.  “It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?  I’d like to get some fresh air.  Maybe take my guard at the door, rather than inside the box.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown in confusion.  “The box is open to the air,” I reply.  “If anything, it would be more stuffy out—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caed,” Allene whispers and squeezes my hand.  I look back at her.  “Yes, Connor, I think that would be acceptable,” she says, this time raising her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor grins and gives a mock salute and heads for the door.  “Aye aye, Captain.”  She pauses mid-stride to consider this turn of phrase.  “That’s a bit off, considering.  Aye aye, Princess?  Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it...”  She shrugs and opens the door.  Halfway through the threshold, she stops and looks back at us.  “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.  Have fun, kids.”  With that, she gives us a very deliberate wink and disappears behind the closing door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that all about?” I ask, my brow pinching in at the middle.  Loathe as I am to admit it, I am still not immune to Connor’s antics nor her attitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allene just laughs and pulls me away from the viewing area, back further into the box and into the low daybed tucked into a nook.  Allene goes first, still facing me as she descends, the pale folds of her gown spilling across the mattress like a silken waterfall.  The sheer curtains part around her shoulders.  Smiling, she pulls me down with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” she says, her voice gone soft and low, “We’re all alone now.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. History</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! it's me! back with another chapter! things are still very hectic here, but they have taken a turn for the better. my wife and i will be moving very soon so still lots to do, but it will be good!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My throat feels tight.I swallow.Allene draws back until she is at the low bed’s head, her fat, gorgeous body half sitting, half reclining, her dark eyes watching me.Soft sunlight filters in through the winding rose vines in the trellis above, painting the space with hints of their color all wrapped in the shadowy silhouettes of thorn-covered vines.I follow Allene, careful not to tread on her dress, until I am situated beside her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She brings a hand up to the side of my face and brushes the tips of her fingers gently down my jaw.I close my eyes.Her hand cups my face.I inhale slowly, taking in the softness of her skin and the sweetness of her scent and the gentle give of the mattress below me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something brushes my lips — at first, I think it his her mouth, but that is not quite right, and when I open my eyes i find her thumb pressed gently to my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going to tell you a secret,” she whispers.My eyes flit up to hers.She smiles.“I’ve liked you for a long time.Likely far longer than you think.”My heart stutters in my chest.Allene’s thumb brushes down the arc of my lip and lands at the corner of my mouth before her hand drops away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why — when did — how long?” I ask, my voice gone thin and squeaky.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs a little and shifts back in place.I think her admission was meant to foster intimacy, like mood lighting or a romantic view.The moment does still feel quite intimate, but I fear I may have trodden on her more flirtatious intentions with my desperation.Anxiety plucks at my gut — and yet I can’t help it.I want so sorely to know.I think Allene sees this.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It didn’t happen all at once,” she says.“At first, I simply found you interesting, you and Feon both.You made a rather striking pair.I’ll never forget the first time I saw his true form — and you, on his back, a sword clutched in one hand and Lysithea’s body held tight with the opposing arm, like a young, brave hero from one of my books.After Lysithea was healed and after the shock of it all wore away somewhat, I still found myself lingering on that image from time to time, and I think perhaps that is where my interest in dragons began.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.“And so that—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no!” Allene exclaims hastily.“No, I will admit I was impressed and intrigued, but I had nothing in the way of feelings towards you at the time.Why, I hardly knew you!But that is what first prompted me to seek you out at subsequent meetings.I wanted to get to know you — both of you, if I’m being honest, but Feon was not particularly receptive.”She pauses and laughs.“Neither were you, honestly.You were so horribly tight-lipped and much too proper.I remember one time I asked you to dance with me and you looked as if I’d just dropped a frog down your tunic.I thought you hated me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sits up and tucks her legs into her chest and wraps her arms around her knees.She looks up at me, her head tilted to one side, that quiet, mischievous smile on her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t hate you,” I reply, my heart fluttering in my chest.“You made me nervous.You always have.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.“I know that <em>now,”</em> she says.“But I didn’t then and it made me so <em>angry.</em>I felt I’d done nothing to earn your ire, and yet you must have hated me considering how very cold and distant you appeared.At first I wondered if that was just how you were — I knew you <em>really</em> hated Lysithea and you didn’t treat me anywhere near as icily as you did her.But then we were all at the — what was it, the spring festival?In Ulaan?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.“It was the first time Mother couldn’t attend, and so I went in her stead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, I saw you with the others — with others our age and you weren’t warm with them, exactly, not in the way I could tell you were with Feon, but you were less… you know.”Allene flaps her hand between us.I don’t know, not exactly, but I nod anyway.“I was so wounded I decided to I might as well hate you myself.Lysithea was thrilled.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m very confused as to how this leads to you liking me,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene waves her hand again.“I’m getting there, I’m getting there.”She takes a deep breath and barrels on.“Anyway — it continued like that for some time.I ignored you as best I could and felt nothing but irritation whenever one of my friends would speak of you admiringly.”My surprise must register upon my face, for she soon clarifies.“Oh, Caederyn, <em>surely</em> you must know something of your reputation.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When all I can do is look back at her questioningly, she sighs and lets her legs fall to the mattress so that she can lean forward and poke the tip of one index finger into my chest.“You have a certain… mystique.You give off this whole tragic, brooding hero vibe.It’s very compelling, particularly amongst young teenaged girls.”I must make some sort of face, for then she laughs, clear and bright. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway — at that point it did naught but irk me.”Allene pauses for a moment and looks thoughtful.“And perhaps I was a bit jealous.You were so unerringly courteous to everyone but ardently refused even the barest hint of intimacy.I understand now that you kept everyone at arm’s length — everyone save Feon.But I felt as if you particularly disliked me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t,” I whisper, my voice reduced to a rasp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene smiles and lays her hand upon mine.“I know that <em>now,</em> silly.But I was young and hurt and I think I probably <em>did</em> like you then — or at the very least I had some measure of interest in you — else I wouldn’t have cared.Regardless, things changed after your coming of age — what, eight years ago?I was meant to attend, you remember, but I took ill.Mother insisted I write you and though I knew it was the proper thing to do, I really didn’t want to. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My dislike of you had somewhat cooled by then, but I was stubborn still.Mother chastised me, accusing me of childish behavior, and if you remember I had come of age myself less than a year prior and such admonishment greatly wounded my pride.So I decided that if I was to write you, I would do it properly, and I would be nothing less than magnanimous.You would be taken in by my charm and I would gloat in my very mature and not at all petty way.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I remember that letter,” I reply, stifling a laugh.“I <em>did</em> think you were charming.Actually, somewhat overwhelmingly so.It was terrifying.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” she says.“I realized, reading your response, that you did seem somewhat taken with me.It felt like winning.I will confess, I did gloat a bit after that — mostly internally, of course.”At my expression, she adds, “But perhaps somewhat externally as well.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She laughs, easy as sunlight on a cloudless day, and continues: “So I decided to write you again.I knew it would be some time before we would next meet and I didn’t want to squander what progress I felt I’d made.I wanted — I don’t know.I think I wanted to steal your affection, to draw your eye, and not for entirely wholesome reasons.But more than that — you weren’t a bad correspondent.I think a part of me was genuinely hopeful to broker a better friendship with you, but I couldn’t admit it to myself.I was less settled then, less sure of myself, and it irked me to no end that you should harbor any measure of dislike for me and I was determined to make you desire my favor.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I say, my voice gone quiet.Looking at her now, it’s difficult to imagine: Allene, younger, but no less vibrant, and yet somehow still able to be bothered by the perceived lack of my regard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene eyes me then and that little secret smile of hers slowly dissolves.“I know perhaps that my intentions were less than kind and that — that maybe you would have rather not known.But you <em>did</em> ask and, more than that, I thought I should tell you.It’s been a long time coming and — and I do like you, an awful lot, enough to think this could work between us.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her body has grown tense beside me.She shifts uneasily and bites her lip.After a moment, I squeeze her hand.Her eyes find mine and for the first time I see a need within her: not for acknowledgement or pleasure, but for validation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It <em>is</em> a lot to take in,” I admit, “But I don’t think I mind it.If anything, it’s — not comforting, precisely, but it sets my mind at ease, just a bit.I like the way you are.A lot.Sometimes, I think, too much so, and I worry that I am not enough and that you’ll soon grow bored of me.I — I’ve heard as much.I could never understand why you would open your heart to me, why you’d choose me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The words come slowly first and then faster, like new rain that starts as a light drizzle before building to a violent downpour, pelting the earth with fat, stinging droplets.My heart thunders nervously in my chest.My palms have grown moist with sweat, but if Allene minds, she doesn’t show it.Her hand remains in mine, our fingers mingled tightly together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“At first I thought — perhaps you wished to rule and, knowing you were third in line, you decided to turn your gaze outside of your own land.But it didn’t seem as if you were particularly motivated by status.You confounded me.You still do, to be honest.I’ve wondered, often, what you could possibly see in me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My words sit between us, heavy and strained.When I meet Allene’s gaze, I find her brown eyes shining wetly.This time, she squeezes my hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There’s a lot,” she replies, her voice gone a bit wobbly with emotion.“There are so many things I see in you, Caederyn.Sometimes I fear my heart may swell to bursting for all the affection I feel for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel in immediate danger of exploding.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene leans in towards me, those big brown-black eyes full of so much warmth, and she kisses me.She holds tightly to the hand joined with her own and with her other hand, she cups the slope of my neck and brings me in close.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I rasp.I feel sucker-punched by it all, hollowed out and buoyed up by her admission, my very being coming apart seam by seam, stretched too tight by desperate, unbelieving tenderness.It hurts, in a way, but it’s a good sort of hurt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She feels it too, I think, and the way we kiss — it’s the fizzle and hiss of a fuse as a spark races down the line before it hits the charge.Anticipation is a taste on my tongue, a heady flavor, an electric bite. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene drops my hand so she can cup my neck on each side.She surges up, climbing into my lap and pushing me down in one swift move.I go easily and without resistance.She falters for a moment as her thigh slides against mine, stumbling and crashing into my chest when she loses her balance.She laughs into my mouth, winded and joyful and utterly unabashed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” she says breathlessly, though she doesn’t sound particularly apologetic.I don’t mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hands find her hips and then, after a momentary hesitation, they move to the curve of her ass.Allene makes an encouraging sound in the back of her throat and nuzzles her face into my neck.I don’t know if I’ll ever grow used to this.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The heat of her is intoxicating: her mouth, her breath, the pressure of her thighs around my hips, the weight of her breasts where they meet my chest.The drapery of her dress has come unpinned on one shoulder and the silky fabric drifts down, down, exposing the swell of her brown breasts right down to the stays.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press a kiss to the skin just beneath her collarbone and she laughs, light and breezy and pleased.Her teeth rasp against the stretch of my throat.Her lips travel up my jugular to my jawline and beyond until they find my mouth and she is able to pull me into a hungry kiss.She shifts atop my lap again, this time with intention, grinding down into me with a satisfied sort of “mmm” sound.Air hisses out through my nostrils.My fingers dig into her ass, sinking into the luxurious fabric spread across it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” I gasp, “I thought you didn’t want to — your gown.Won’t it get messed up?”Despite my words, I can’t help but to answer her movement.I can feel the pressure of my cock as it swells, trapped between our thighs, emanating a desperate, heated wanting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene just laughs and rucks up the skirt of her gown so that is flows freely, no longer trapped between our bodies, and so that the length of one long, brown, stockinged leg is revealed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Some things are worth getting messed up over,” she replies.Her breath is honeyed desert fruit as it ghosts across my cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand slides over the length of my body and down between us, down until she can shove away the split halves of my tunic and brush her fingers across the front of my trousers, over the swell of my cock.Her laughter trills between us, a sweet and airy thing, and she wastes no time unbuttoning my trousers.Slipping her hand inside, she finds me half hard and hungry.Her palm is warm and slightly damp as she takes my dick in hand and draws it out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She grins down at me, her face framed by small coils of dark hair that have slipped free from the confines of her low bun.Her hand moves with a surety that has me roused to fullness in almost no time.She leans down into me, her breasts pressing into my chest as she brings our bodies together, matching the head of my cock to her mons.It is only then that I realize that she is not wearing any underpants.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene—” I begin, but my attempt at speech quickly devolves into a breathy groan as she rubs against me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As if able to read my mind, she replies, “They would have ruined the silhouette.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The — what?Oh,” I say, my voice rising into a breathy laugh.“Of course.Why didn’t I think of that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene rolls her eyes and responds by twisting her hand so that the head of my cock comes fully unsheathed from the foreskin.Seeing me sufficiently silenced, she says, “That’s better,” and grinds into me, the wetness of her cunt enfolding me as her clit slides down the underside of my cock.I can only describe the sound that leaves my lips as a squeak. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs and bites at my lip.“What were you saying again?” she all but purrs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I gasp, breathless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel strangely light-headed, perhaps because there is no longer any blood left for my brain.I bend my legs so that I can dig my heels into the mattress for leverage, all so I can better meet her body with my own.She leaves her hand wrapped around my cock to keep us pushed up tightly together as we grind into each other, the wet folds of her cunt pressing in around me, forming a channel with the curve of her hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene moans and says, “Lore and stone, I want nothing more than to get you inside me and fuck you good and proper.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My cock gives a desperate twitch against her.I can’t help thinking about it, about how good she’ll feel, that if I’m already this close just pressed against her, just how easily I could lose myself inside her.It’s scary how much I want that — how much I want <em>her</em> — and it’s scary to think that I could have it, could have everything, could have her.And how I could fuck it all up.I can already feel myself leaking into her palm, sad and hot and wet and much too eager.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t think there’s time now,” she continues, her voice low in my ear, and there’s a touch of real sadness there.She works me as she speaks, her hand squeezing me so tightly it borders on painful.“When first I take you fully, I want to do it thoroughly.I want to take my time.I want to devour you.I want to take you apart.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a rushing in my ears that is so powerful I hardly hear the strangled moan that gusts out from my lips.I cum almost instantly, my cock spasming as it spills against her hand and mons.I am shuddering, full bodied, my fingers dug tight in her ass, sweat lining my back and brow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I shake, I can feel the rasp of my undershirt as it chafes my nipples.It’s too much.I curl forward, burying my head in the crook of her shoulder.She eases me through my tremors, her hand gliding gently from base to tip and back again and again until I am spent and limp.She leans down and presses a kiss to my damp brow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There you are,” she whispers approvingly, her thumb tracing the underside of my cock.It gives an aborted twitch, straining to find some last seed within me and coming up empty. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her hand slides off me, leaving me suddenly cold.The next moment her fingers press against my lips.They’re cum-slicked and musty from the humidity between us.My heart does a strange little flop.I hesitate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go on,” she says encouragingly, and when I meet her eyes I find heat within them.“Won’t you be good for me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something within me stretches and snaps, like a an old lute string strummed with too much force.I open my mouth.I take her fingers.I lick them clean.I can’t do it and still meet her eyes, and so I find myself looking down: down at the spread of her body before me, her brown bosom and smooth thighs, the place where my cock disappears under the rucked up hem of her gown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s good, babe,” she whispers, her breath hot on my cheek.“You did good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel strange: hot and nervous, my insides gone all fluttery.Everything feels slow and liquid and honey-drenched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now show me what else that mouth can do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My heart stutters in my chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That single word, that syllable, it freezes me.Allene turns to glance over her shoulder.Her fingers fall from my lips and when she moves, I see it plain: Feon standing in the threshold of the nook, one hand raised to part the sheer curtains, his body frozen, his face turned a nasty red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I breathe, my heart seizing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Solene’s tits!” he exclaims, “Go fuck somewhere you’re <em>not</em> sharing a room with like five other people!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow, Feon, that’s very rude,” Allene replies.She’s straightened up and has half turned to face him.She still hasn’t re-pinned her gown where it’s come undone.“Forget Caed’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother’s tits, Feon, mine are right here and I can promise with approximately ninety-five percent certainty that they’re better than hers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s the other five percent for?” Feon asks, seemingly unable to stop himself despite the moment’s awkwardness.I, for one, am sufficiently mortified, but Allene seems intent not to succumb to such shortcomings.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Necrophiliacs,” Allene answers breezily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ew!” Feon says and makes a gagging noise.After a moment, he stops and asks, “Wait, so, you’ve calculated that <em>five percent</em> of people are—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene cuts him off, “Well one must always leave room for error as well.Please, Feon, it’s as if you’ve never studied basic mathematics.”By now, she’s finally begun to re-pin her gown and set herself back in order.At Feon’s silence, she glances up.I look too and I find him hot-faced and avoiding all eye contact.Allene whirls around to stare at me.“Don’t tell me you never—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t look at me!” I say, defensive.“We had the same tutors, it’s not my fault Feon didn’t pay attention!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I paid enough attention!” Feon squawks.“I know all the important stuff — anyway we have people for that.For doing maths and stuff.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a moment then when we are all three of us silent and staring at one another.Allene stands and smooths out her gown with her hands and Feon blanches.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed—” he says, sounding for all the world like he’s about to have a hairball.“You might wanna—”He gestures towards me, his face gone weird and red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare back at him, confused, before finally glancing down and — oh, hell.I hastily tuck myself back into my trousers and do up the buttons with near inhuman speed.My whole face feels like a blister, red and swollen to bursting from sheer mortification, the heat of it spreading from my neck to my ears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not that Feon has never seen me naked before — he has, many times — it is more the context that makes this particular moment so deeply horrible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon fakes a cough into his forearm and slowly backs away.As he does, Allene passes by him, and I watch as she pauses beside him, her hand moving to rest upon his shoulder.She leans in to say something to him, though I can’t make out what.He glares down at his feet for several moments, his scowl growing increasingly pronounced, his face going an alarming shade of red, until it becomes too much and he finally looks her in the face and snaps.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can’t — you can’t just — <em>no!!” </em>he exclaims.He looks as appalled as he is furious.“Fuck you!Fuck you and your whole — fuck — ugh!!”He gestures first at her and then me.His fingers twitch tensely, as if he’d very much like to have something to rip to shreds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If Allene minds, though, she doesn’t show it.She laughs and pats him on the shoulder twice before stepping over to a wall that holds a sizable mirror.As she checks herself over, she speaks up again, and this time I can hear it.“So, did you find anything, or did you clam jam me for no good reason?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?” Feon asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene grins.“What?” she asks with mock innocence.“Do you have a different term for—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not that!!” Feon screeches.He looks about ready to breathe fire.I think I even see a small plume of smoke curl up from one nostril.“I know what — ugh — the other thing, you malevolent pickle hog.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs loudly, which Feon pretends to ignore.He’s turned away from me now, but I can see the tension of his shoulders and read from it the truth.As much as he’d like to claim otherwise, he cares. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon hovers over one of the tables, I think to fake some interest in the spread laid out there so that he does not have to meet my eyes as I pull the nook’s curtains shut and join them in the main chamber.For once I am grateful for his avoidance of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You went to go take a peek at the other box, didn’t you?” she asks.“What did you find?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh — that.”If anything, Feon’s tone turns darker still.“I didn’t — there wasn’t anything to see, not really.It took ages for me to bully my way in and then — nothing.Nothing worthwhile, anyway.Just another box, like this one, but... different.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So descriptive,” Allene says, sighing.“Anyway, you’re certain there was nothing?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon glares back at her.“If I’d found something, I wouldn’t be here,” he says shortly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still ill at ease, I put myself between the two of them.We started this journey that way — me interposed between Allene and Feon in order to maintain some semblance of peace.It feels different now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s good you returned.The tournament should be resuming soon,” I say.Anything to provide a distraction.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon frowns and skitters back and away like a sand plover escaping the rushing tide.“Yeah — about that — where the fuck did everyone go?I saw Wo— Connor at the door.She, like, winked at me before I came in.It was weird.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel suddenly weak all over — so much so that I have to take a seat and put my head in my hands.“Oh, sun above,” I curse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene just throws back her head and laughs long and hard.“Oh, wow!” she wheezes.I look up and find her wiping a tear from one eye.“That’s—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I never get to find out what “that” is, for at that moment, the door swings open and the small, bustling crowd that is the Ladies Fidelity and Clemence, Jasper, Connor, and the captain come streaming in, preceded by the delicious pungency of freshly fried foods.Lady Fidelity, in particular, looks quite pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re back!” she says, grinning, a whole heaping tray of food stuffs clutched in her hands.Jasper and the captain are similarly laden, but Lady Clemence is more modestly outfitted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Holy shit,” Feon says, turning.“Did you buy out the whole market?How many vendors did you clean out?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I think Lady Fidelity must not have heard or must have thought the question did not merit answering, for she does not reply, instead choosing to bustle past Feon (nearly elbowing him in her haste) to set her goods down upon an empty table.The others quickly follow suit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you have fun?” Allene asks.She smiles indulgently and snags a slice of fried plantain from a platter and dips it into a small dish of chocolate sauce.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“So</em> much fun,” Lady Fidelity answers, beaming.She fetches a plate and begins to arrange a selection of foods upon it — most notably, a large funnel cake that is piled so high with powdered sugar that the cake itself is almost entirely obscured.“There were games and toys and all manner of people — it was so crowded as to be overwhelming, stuffed with stalls and people and games and all other manner of things, and I’d likely have gotten lost if it weren’t for Jasper.It was <em>amazing.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A trumpet blares from the other side of the box and as a unit we rush to regain our seats.The stands are an ocean of anticipation, packed to the brim with gleeful, hollering people, all dressed up brightly for the occasion like beautiful, glittering fish. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sits beside me, just close enough so that the tips of her fingers just brush mine.I glance back towards her and find her smiling at me.I hear a loud snort and turn to find Feon glaring at us, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.I expect that to be the last of it, but to my surprise, he lingers.His eyes dart back and forth across each of our faces for several long moments before he lunges forward and sandwiches himself between our bodies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I jolt in place, too surprised to keep still.Feon staunchly refuses to look at me, his mouth forming into a determined scowl as he settles in at my right.There’s not enough room for him between Allene and me, not quite.I feel the press of his thigh against mine as a wall of searing fire and yet I hold still, too scared to even breathe, terrified that if I move I’ll break whatever strange spell has made this possible.Feon’s entire body is tensed and coursing with frenetic energy, like a hummingbird furiously beating its wings to stay in place.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel almost overcome with it, my throat swollen shut by emotion, my skin prickling and hot.Allene lets loose a small, breathy laugh.Feon’s shoulders go somehow stiffer still, and yet he remains in place: too competitive to be proud, too proud to be vulnerable, too vulnerable to truly give up on me.Something, some emotion, bubbles up within me and I cannot tell if it is closer to hope or despair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If anyone else in our party has noticed the small, strange storm brewing on this single settee, none of them comment upon it.I am so consumed by it that I hardly notice the contest below despite the opera glasses pressed to my face.Now that the finalists have been chosen, they have been seeded into eight brackets of one on one fights.Lady Ballard, Sir Sieglinde, and Brennard all clear their first battles with ease.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Time behaves strangely.It seems to rush forward and then halt to a crawl without cause and without my noticing.It’s an awkward, lurching rhythm.I spend my time counting my own breaths.I inhale and my nose is flooded with Feon’s scent (cinnamon and smoke and sweat).I breathe out and feel him vibrating against me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My free hand is clenched so tightly that my fingers begin to buzz and tingle, but still I dare not move.When next I look down at the pitch, certain no more than a scant few minutes have passed, I find Brennard and Sir Sieglinde poised to fight one another in the semi-final.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene lowers her glasses long enough applaud as they take their places at opposite ends of the ring and shift into ready stances.I follow suit.They are still dressed as before — Brennard in white with two small blooms of dye and Sir Sieglinde stained red from head to toe, her face alone scrubbed free of the clinging clay color — but gone are the staffs used for the qualifying heats.Brennard bears a gleaming broadsword in one hand and a buckler in the other while Sir Sieglinde easily hefts a truly massive blade that, on anyone else, would be a two-hander, with a half shield adorning her opposing forearm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oooooh, have you seen them fight before?” Allene asks excitedly.“Who do you think will win?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir Sieglinde,” Feon and I answer in unison (though he without the honorific).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I swallow uncomfortably and glance Feon’s way.He has his eyes determinedly set upon the match and his arms crossed tightly over his chest.His shoulder is pressed against mine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t seen them fight — not seriously, not outside some light sparring — but...”I gesture down to the bowl, where the fight has begun.Brennard seems to be keeping a wary distance, but I know his defeat is only a matter of time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, how can you know, then?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor snorts.“Have you <em>seen</em> Sieglinde?”Allene shoots her a look that is half amused, half reproachful.“No offense, Your Highness,” Connor quickly adds.Allene rolls her eyes but settles back into place.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes kept resolutely on the action, Captain Elske says, “Prince Caederyn is correct.Sir Sieglinde is a highly competent swordsman.I would be very surprised if Brennard managed to best her in single combat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s a bit boring,” Allene huffs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look at their blades,” Captain Elske says.She gestures down to the bowl.Brennard has his buckler braced before his body as he makes cautious strikes towards Sir Sieglinde.Testing the waters.The problem is readily apparent.“He doesn’t have the reach.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh...” Allene says, her voice gone all hushed.“Oh, that’s sad...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He could still win,” Jasper says encouragingly.“It would be difficult, but if he plays it safe, he could still manage to best her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He won’t,” Connor says and cackles loudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The match ends with Brennard splayed on his back, his sword sent skittering out of his hand.He went down heavily, sending up a plume of red dust that now coats his sweat-slicked body with a faint mist of rusty grime. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde approaches him with her sword sheathed and holds out a hand to help him up.Even with the glasses, I can’t make out her expression, but I can imagine the wide, kind smile she is likely wearing.Brennard accepts her help and when he rises to his feet, they shake hands — before Sir Sieglinde pulls him into a rough, one-armed hug.They exit together, Brennard limping slightly as they go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it was a valiant effort,” Allene says.“He didn’t do all that badly, though that bit with his leg...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He did well,” the captain says.I glance back just in time to catch the sly grin Connor shoots the captain’s way.“He did well considering the circumstances,” Captain Elske amends.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.Seeing the two of them standing so closely together makes me vaguely uncomfortable.The captain is straight backed and sure footed, her hands clasped behind her back.Connor lounges beside her, slouching as she leans against the wall.They’re not even touching but it unsettles me still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, oh!There she is!My lady — look!”Lady Fidelity gestures animatedly down at the stadium.She has bits of powdered sugar sprinkled around her mouth and cheeks like sticky little snowflakes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Allene exclaims and the next moment she jumps to her feet and is whooping and hollering with her hands cupped around her mouth.“Yes!Lysithea!Woooo!Show that woman what for!”She jabs out a series of small mock punches, her hands curled too loosely to form effective fists.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene stays standing for a long time, long enough to watch as Lady Ballard draws her rapier and main gauche against that fox-faced fighter with the orchil sashes.It’s a fast fight.Lady Ballard’s opponent is quick and clever, but with no cover to hide behind, she is easily bested, her long twin daggers rendered ineffective after she is disarmed — once the traditional way (via a parry), the other less so (via a high hick that sends the dagger flying from its owner’s grasp).The orchil fighter faces a rapier’s point to her breast with a posture that is half recalcitrant, half resigned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She cedes the victory immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We all applaud, some of us more enthusiastically than others, putting down our opera glasses to do so.Feon isn’t applauding at all.He cups his hands around his mouth and boos loudly.I hear the clapping sound as Allene smacks him lightly on the thigh.Feon turns his body her way and makes a truly disgusting fart sound.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please stop doing horrible things with your mouth,” Allene says primly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon looses a long, aggrieved sigh.“And here I thought you <em>liked</em> the horrible things I do with my mouth,” he mutters — or at least it’s something like that, the words grumbled too quietly for me to entirely make them out.Except, I think I must have heard wrong, because the way Allene is laughing and looking at him — </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She catches my eye over Feon’s shoulder and shoots me a saucy wink before slowly raising her strange, many-lensed glasses back to her eyes and returning her attention to the happenings below.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The final match is between Sir Sieglinde and Lady Ballard.It feels inevitable in a way I wasn’t anticipating, as if from the moment they stepped into the bowl and the first horn was sounded, that it could only ever have been them.They cut such different silhouettes: a red giant against a silver needle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So...” Allene begins, drawing out the syllable like a slow, steady drip of syrup, “The whole — you know — reach issue that Brennard had... Do you think Lysithea is equally likely to be bested?”Her tone is mild.I don’t trust it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Ballard has proven herself to be a skilled fighter,” I reply as neutrally as I am able.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you don’t think it likely?” Allene presses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon waves dismissively down at the pitch.“Look,” he says, “Imagine you’re, like, trying to take something from someone bigger and stronger than you.What would you do?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Negotiate, obviously,” Allene replies.“I do not lack for funds.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I mean, ugh, fine, okay, sure.So then Lysithea bribes Sieglinde to throw the fight and—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir Sieglinde would do no such thing,” the captain says sharply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, no shit,” Feon replies.“Anyway, what I was trying to say is, like, <em>usually</em> in those sorts of situations humans, like, I don’t know.Study their opponent.Look for the right opportunity and then, like, <em>bam.</em>You strike!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that what humans usually do?” I ask, amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Down in the bowl, the fight has begun.Sir Sieglinde stands with an enviable surety, rotating as Lady Ballard begins to circle her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I mean, it’s not what <em>I</em> would do, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What would <em>you</em> do?” Allene asks.I can hear suppressed laughter in her voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, <em>obviously</em> I’d shift into my true form and light them on fire, duh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alas, we cannot all be dragons,” Allene sighs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.It’s very sad for you.What does it feel like to suck so bad?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Every day is a harrowing performance,” Allene says.“Someone asks you how you are and you just have to say that you’re fine, when you’re not really fine—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think we’ve somewhat lost the point,” I interject.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” Allene says.“So, then, if my dear friend is at such a dramatic disadvantage, how does she prevail?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Patience and a keen eye,” the captain says.When I glance back, I find her standing ramrod straight, her attention as sharply pointed as a rapier as she watches the unfolding duel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll be a war of attrition,” Connor explains, “To see if Ballard can wear Sieglinde down before your friend gets her ass handed to her on a thematically colored platter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” Feon says, monotone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor grins.“You know.Second place.Silver.Plus that Larish babe’s whole—”She waves her hand over her face vaguely in the proximity of features such as “hair” and “eyes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon twists around so he can stare Connor dead in the face.“You are super not funny,” he says loudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Connor replies, entirely unbothered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon hesitates, uncertain in the face of her indifference.“I just thought you should know.Since.Y’know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They remain awkwardly staring at one another until —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!Oh, there, she got her!” Allene exclaims triumphantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hastily look back down at the match and see Lady Ballard swiftly retreating several steps, her rapier’s point made red by Sir Sieglinde’s blood.Undaunted, Sir Sieglinde continues forward, her sword arm just as steady as it was at the day’s commencement as she pressures Lady Ballard, forcing her to cede more and more ground.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a soft, disappointed “oh” from Allene’s direction and smile fondly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is not a battle to first blood,” I explain.“If it were, Lady Ballard would have the advantage.But as it is, her best tactic is to wear Sir Sieglinde down with as many puncture wounds as she can manage — yes, just like that.”Lady Ballard’s blade darts out and scores a piercing blow into one of Sir Sieglinde’s thighs.She quickly withdraws once more, just barely managing to sidestep a thrust of Sir Sieglinde’s massive sword.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not that I want Sir Sieglinde to <em>die</em> or anything, but why isn’t Lysithea going for the gut?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Padded armor — all the contestants wear it under their tunics.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The match continues as Connor predicted: a drawn out bout that is fought in hard won measures.We watch as Sir Sieglinde’s wounds multiply, her bright blood blooming and seeping through the cracks of the red clay that coats her body.And yet she continues, steadfast as ever as she methodically herds Lady Ballard towards the edge of the ring, where the red moat’s waters wait.Lady Ballard has drawn so much of Sir Sieglinde’s blood that it has run down the length of her rapier and spilled over the cross-guard and the sweepings to stain the noble’s hands and sleeves.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How is she still fighting?” Allene asks, her voice hushed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wounds like that — they don’t kill quickly, if they kill at all,” I reply.“Though a combatant of lesser stature would likely have been slowed, if not all together stopped.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde successfully blocks a nasty thrust from Lady Ballard’s rapier and the sheer force of Sir Sieglinde’s strength sends reverberations up the entirety of Lady Ballard’s arm.I wince sympathetically, having myself felt that same pain at the wrong end of Sir Sieglinde’s sword many times.Lady Ballard takes one step back — and then another and another.She does her best to assuage the ground lost, to skirt around Sir Sieglinde, but she cannot help that she is being slowly and inexorably crowded out of the ring.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard ducks back, side-stepping Sir Sieglinde and raising her rapier high in a moment of desperation, its point arcing up over its wielder’s head.Blood blooms fierce and bright across Sir Sieglinde’s forehead and for the first time, she falters, her step growing unsure as her life’s blood spills into her eyes.She falls into a cautious ready stance as she presses a forearm to her brow to staunch the flow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now it is Lady Ballard’s turn to apply pressure, to put Sir Sieglinde on the defensive, to force her into a secret choreography that only Lady Ballard knows.Sir Sieglinde blocks every blow, but she’s lost the beat, and it is now Lady Ballard who dictates their rhythm.Lady Ballard is a riot of shining silver, a brilliant needle sewing her thread into a cage around her opponent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde’s posture is grim, her shoulders set, and I know she must be weighing her options.She readies a blow, and the anticipation of her thrust is a hurricane, a quickly brewing storm, the tensing of her muscles like angry, twisting clouds.It’s a wind up that promises power and pain — and it is a movement that foretells her intent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The dance around the ring’s edge — the give and take of territory, the clashing of blades — all of a sudden, it stops.Sir Sieglinde freezes mid-thrust, her mountainous body heaving with exertion, her blade gone wide, a thin red line drawn across her throat.Lady Ballard stands there, inside her opponent’s guard, close enough to kiss if only Sir Sieglinde bent to meet her, the point of her rapier held to Sir Sieglinde’s throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To say Lady Ballard is standing — it doesn’t properly describe the way she comports herself, so perfectly held like a taut bowstring.She remains in place, as if caught mid-motion, her body seeming both locked and fluid, a waterfall frozen in time.That’s how she looks: not still, but <em>stilled,</em> every part of her as dangerously sharp as the point of her rapier.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sir Sieglinde drops her sword and raises her hand.She bows her head.A horn blares.It’s over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is on her feet within moments.She hoots and hollers and stamps her feet in jubilation.Soon, her friends join her, though less energetically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gradually, the crowd rouses, and it is like listening to the uneasy first patters of rain: awkward, asynchronous, and slow to build.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard withdraws her rapier and sheaths it.After a long moment of tense staring, Sir Sieglinde bows to her.They shake hands.I think they exchange words.And then Sir Sieglinde exits.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The band starts up an anthem of triumph and I wonder if it is simply my imagination that the musicians start out of time with one another, an ungraceful stumbling as they find their footing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think that’s my cue!” Allene laughs — and sure enough, down on the pitch, a number of young ladies, all of them dressed in their glittering best, assemble. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene joins them, stepping eagerly onto the narrow stairway that leads down from a front corner of the private box and into the arena.I follow her up until the balcony’s sun drenched edge.She smiles at me briefly, the sunlight glittering in her dark hair, and then disappears down the stairs and into the bowl.Allene moves with a delicate surety, her fingers daintily clutching her skirts so that they do not drag in the red dust below.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of the other ladies presents Lady Ballard with a large bouquet of roses that are as deeply red as her stained hands; another gifts her with a golden pendant; the third wraps around her waist a finely made golden belt; and the fourth places upon her shoulders a rich, red cape.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard stands there and accepts the gifts bestowed upon her, her chin thrust out proudly, her posture radiating a bone deep smugness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Allene moves to stand before Lady Ballard, the Larish noble sinks to one knee before her and bows low.Allene bends to place a hand on either of Lady Ballard’s shoulders and bids her to rise.Lady Ballard stands.The roar of the crowd is a rushing sound, a deluge of mixed emotions.Allene leans forward and presses a kiss to Lady Ballard’s cheek. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grip the balcony’s banister so tightly that my hands throb with it.Something in my chest rises and twists, a rag wrung none too gently.All the parts of me feel disjointed, too hot fragments brought to boiling by the sun’s harsh light and then mashed together inelegantly.A bead of sweat drips down the back of my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does it bother you?Their relationship?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I startle at the sound.Feon stands beside me, his golden head glinting in the sunlight.He glances my way and meets my eyes just long enough to make me uncomfortable before his gaze returns to the pitch.There, Allene is laughing along with Lady Ballard as she is awarded a gleaming golden trophy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not own her heart,” I reply stiffly.The stone of the balustrade has been smoothed to near seamlessness, but my hands squeeze it so tightly I can feel its texture imprinting upon my palms.“But Lady Ballard in particular... I...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon places his elbows upon the railing and leans forward so that his chin rests in the bowl where his palms meet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” he says, almost too quiet to be heard over the crowd.“I know what you mean.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. An Open Door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>had a lot of fun with this one! hope y'all enjoy. still a lot of chaos happening over here, but my wife and i are muddling through it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Feon</p><p> </p><p>Two days after the tournament, Caed and Allene host a small soirée in the conservatory to herald in the new season.  Though the young summer days are hot, the nights maintain a touch of spring’s chill, just enough so that the balmy humidity of the greenhouse is pleasant, like a little pocket of true summer in the middle of the night.  The clearing ringed by fruit trees, which formerly was the site that hosted Allene’s tea parties, has been emptied of its settings, the tables and chairs all ferried away someplace else so that those select invitees may mill about companionably, drifting in and out of conversations as they please.  </p><p>And there, in the center of it all, stand Allene and Caed, she a glittering force of gladness, and he her somber anchor.  There is an ease between them now that wasn’t there before, a gentle knowingness when their eyes meet.  It rouses an itch deep at the core of me.</p><p>I stand some distance from them, near enough to hear the peal of Allene’s laughter over the hubbub of the crowd, but not near enough to hear what caused her mirth.</p><p>“Lady Fae?  Is everything alright?” Fidelity asks.</p><p>I jolt in place and hastily turn my head to face her properly.  “What?  Oh, yes, sorry, my brain seems to have come down with a case of wanderlust.”  When she gives me a look of confusion, I clarify.  “You know, my thoughts got away from me...”</p><p>Fidelity’s face brightens and she laughs.  “Oh!” she says.  “Well, did they go anywhere interesting?”</p><p>“Not in the slightest.  Anyway — you were saying something, weren’t you?”</p><p>“Nothing much,” she replies.  “Just remarking on the evening — you know, all the little lights they set up, they’re so pretty.”  She gestures overhead.  </p><p>Through the break in the canopy, we can see dozens upon dozens of tiny little multi-colored beads that have been scattered across the domed ceiling as well as throughout the greenery itself.  They drift about in some unknown breeze, giving off a soft, romantic luminescence, like those troublesome fae lights sometimes seen deep in Ogren.  Beyond the lights — and beyond the glass ceiling — the sky outside is completely and utterly black, a widespread ink spill that blots out the horizon.</p><p>“And also — also that you look nice tonight.  That’s a lovely color on you,” Fidelity continues.</p><p>“Oh,” I say and smile.  “Thank you.”  </p><p>The Shiftweave, currently a warm buttery yellow, rustles appreciatively against my skin.  As of recent, I’ve allowed the Shiftweave to form as it pleases — so long that its will and mine align.  It seems to appreciate this.  Tonight it presents as a long, slim gown, high-necked and low-backed, bearing my shoulders (with the edges of my Bond mark hidden by golden bangles).  It splits at the sides and beneath it I wear a pair of slim-fit trousers.  And over it all, I wear a matching sheer dupatta pinned to one shoulder and draped around the opposite arm.</p><p>“I feel as if it has been ever so long since we last met,” she says, her voice bright and breathy.  And I suppose she is right — for though I have oft seen her, she has recently only seen me in my usual guise.  “I heard — Princess Allene said you had been somewhat under the weather as of late.”</p><p>I nod into my glass of champagne.</p><p>“Yes — we were so sorry to hear that you had taken ill,” Clemence cuts in.  For the first time since I’ve known her, she is wearing her hair down.  It lays sleek and black and shiny against the elegant line of her back.</p><p>“I appreciate the sentiment,” I reply, “And of course, the gifts as well — Lady Fidelity, thank you for the herbal tea and for the note.  They were very sweet.”</p><p>Fidelity beams, her cheeks gone all rosy with drink.  She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can get the first word out, Clemence continues:</p><p>“Forgive my rudeness, but Princess Allene mentioned that your illness was somewhat chronic in nature, some weakness against the sun.  And I was wondering — have you ever thought of moving elsewhere?  Surely, there must be places more suited to one of your disposition and then you needn’t suffer so.”</p><p>“I’m certain you’re right,” I say stiffly.  “But, well, home is home.”  I offer up my barest approximation of a smile.</p><p>“And where is that again?  Prior to Soliss, that is.” Clemence continues, her voice light.  “Please do forgive my forgetfulness.”</p><p>“Cindwick,” I reply as I imagine popping her head off in one easy go.  Maybe if I think about it hard enough it’ll manifest.</p><p>“Of course, of course,” Clemence replies breezily.  “You know, it’s rather funny, in my time serving our dear, beloved princess, I’ve received much correspondence in her stead — well wishes, congratulations, letters of introduction and the like.”  Here, she pauses and takes a sip of her drink.  All the while, her dark eyes do not leave my face.</p><p>“Well, fortune has it that I happen to have come across a parcel from a young woman in Cindwick — A Lady Renée Lisle.”  The name sounds vaguely familiar but I’m uncertain why.  “She is a bright young thing and as luck would have it, we just so happen to get along quite nicely.  Why, I’ve been corresponding with her now for the past few weeks and when I happened to mention that one of Cindwick’s own had taken up roost amongst our number, why, she was so pleasantly surprised.”  </p><p>I go stiff and still as a cadaver.</p><p>“And I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be lovely to reunite these two?  I can’t imagine there to be many young women of means in such a provincial town — begging your pardon — and I thought the two of you might have come to miss one another and that a reunion was in order, particularly as you have been <em> so </em> sickly and out of sorts as of late.  Home does the heart well, after all.”</p><p>“Oh,” I say faintly.  “How very kind of you.”</p><p>Clemence smiles and the curve of her mouth is a wicked thing.  “Please, do not even mention it, it was my pleasure.”</p><p>I feel about ready to shrivel and die.  “When will she be arriving?”</p><p>“Tonight,” Clemence replies, and I feel the floor of my gut collapse.  “Or at least — she was meant to.”  She releases an artful sigh and takes a sip from her glass.  “Sadly, her journey has been delayed somewhat — brigands or the like — but worry not, she is safe and sound and I am certain she will arrive before the wedding with plenty time to spare.”</p><p>“That’s wonderful,” I say leadenly.  “I can’t wait to see her.”</p><p>Fidelity glances between the two of us with, a frown slowly overtaking her sweet face.  “Is everything alright?” she asks.  “Lady Fae — you’re looking a bit green.”</p><p>“Oh no,” I say weakly.  “It must be my chronic illness.  What a pity.”</p><p>“Pity indeed,” Clemence says, straight faced, her lips pressed to the rim of her glass.  Her black eyes gleam triumphantly in the low light.</p><p>Over Clemence’s shoulder, I catch sight of a familiar set of bouncing brown curls and I hastily call out, “Lady Cicely!  I’ve been looking for you!”  I quickly excuse myself from the current conversation and dart away to speak with someone less intent upon my destruction.</p><p>Cicely stops and beams at me.  She’s hanging on the arm of a short, toothsome man with very shiny black hair and a stately cane held in his free hand.  Together, they look like a couple plucked off the illustrated pages of a children’s fable: she in the sort of floofy pink nightmare that makes me want to sneeze just by looking at it and he in a crisp, overly galant suit jacket with long tails and burgundy velvet accents.  He looks vaguely familiar to me in a “probably has quarters in the palace” sort of way.</p><p>“Good evening, dear, how are you?” Cicely coos.  She breaks away from the man just long enough to kiss me upon both cheeks and then perform a thorough inspection of my attire.  Once satisfied, she returns to him, one brown arm linking through his while the opposite hand moves to rest on his bicep.  “Lady Fae, I don’t believe you’ve yet met my Eduardo, have you?”</p><p>“No,” I say and smile, “But I’ve heard plenty.”  Far too much, if you ask me.</p><p>The man — Eduardo — smiles back at me and opens his mouth to speak, but is overtaken by his wife’s enthusiasm.  “Eduardo, this is the young lady I was telling you of the other day, the new friend of our dear Princess Allene.”  When Cicely smiles, her round nose wrinkles up adorably.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to—”</p><p>“How have you been feeling, my dear?” she asks, wiping out his words like a wave washing away sandcastles.</p><p>“Better, thank you,” I reply.  “That’s why I wanted to seek you out — your gift was very, err, kind.  And helpful.  Definitely helpful.”</p><p>“Oh, lovely, so the ointment worked, then?”</p><p>“Yep.  It super did.”  I give her a big smile and a double thumbs up and start to retreat.  “It was so kind of you and you totally didn’t have to do anything at all, but you did, and it was very sweet and I appreciated it so much.  Anyway, I’ve got to —”</p><p>Cicely sighs and lays a hand upon my shoulder.  Her ring glints prettily upon her finger.  “You poor dear,” she says before turning to her husband.  “You see, Lady Fae here suffers a similar condition to Chervil — you know how my dear cousin gets those horrid rashes, particularly in the height of summer.”</p><p>Eduardo nods sympathetically and opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted once again by his wife.</p><p><em> “Such </em> a shame,” she continues, sighing, “But then it has inspired his interest in the medicinal arts, which I think is very good for him considering that side of the family’s—”  Here, she pauses and glances at me for a moment before giggling and shaking her head.  “Oh, no, forget I said anything, Lady Fae!  That was nearly <em> so </em> bad of me.”</p><p>I stare back at her, nonplused.  “Okay,” I reply.</p><p>“You <em> must </em> forgive me my tongue, I’m afraid all that bubbly has already gone to my head.”  Cicely leans heavily into her husband’s arm, tiny trills of laughter spilling from her lips.</p><p>“Sure,” I reply.  “No problem.”</p><p>“You’re such a dear, sweet thing,” she says and reaches forward to pinch my cheek, though I am not much younger than she.  I stare back at her in appalled silence.  “I must confess I was reticent at first — my dear, you do not make the best first impressions.  What with the—”  Here, she waves her hand, and leaves off her words to dissolve into another fit of giggles.  </p><p>Once Cicely calms (which takes a minute or so, during which Eduardo and I make awkwardly prolonged eye contact), she straightens and continues: “Regardless, I am <em> so </em> please that Princess Allene saw fit to bring you into the fold.  She has such a keen eye, you know.  Such a discerning woman, truly she will be a boon to our land.”</p><p>I nod dumbly.  I don’t have anything to say to this, but it’s no matter for Cicely seems to have enough words for all three of us.  She slips away from her husband once more to put an arm around my shoulder and lean in conspiratorially.</p><p>“You know,” she says, her voice falling to a stage whisper that is all together not much quieter than her previous tone, “I happen to have it on good authority that perhaps there is a member of our coterie that is rather more enthusiastic about your presence than the rest of us.”</p><p>“What,” I say, deadpan.</p><p>“Don’t play coy, Lady Fae,” Cicely says, her voice full of barely repressed glee.  “It can’t have entirely escaped your notice, can it?”  Her breath gusts warm and boozy over my face.</p><p>My eyes flit towards Eduardo, who stands back, cane steadied in one hand, a sort of helplessly fond smile on his face.  I stare back at him and widen my eyes and grimace and then mouth the words “help me.”  He raises a hand to his mouth and shakes his head.  Dirty, nasty, no good traitor.  I’ll see he burns.</p><p>“I’m certain I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I reply with all the loftiness I can summon.</p><p>“My <em> dear,” </em> she says, her voice incredulous, “Surely you can’t have missed your secret admirer?”  Her breath has quickened, coming out in short, sharp, excited puffs that border on laughter.</p><p>I blanche.  “My what now?”</p><p>“Oh, but you jest!” Cicely breathes.  “Surely—”</p><p>“Lady Fae, there you are!”  In comes Fidelity: my dear friend, my benevolent savior.  She breezes in on a huff of warm air, her cheeks rosy, her unfortunate hair forming a frizzy ginger halo about her face.</p><p>Cicely gives such a loud squeal directly into my ear that I fear I may be permanently deafened.  I jolt back from her and rip myself from her grasp, but she hardly seems to notice.  Cicely sways slightly in place before Eduardo swoops in to steady her.  She goes easily, falling into his arms as she dissolves into a fit of helpless giggles.</p><p>“Lady Fidelity,” Cicely says, “Why, it is so lovely to see you and, my dear, you look so very fetching tonight.  I simply <em> love </em> what you’ve done with your hair.”</p><p>“I haven’t done anything with my hair,” Fidelity replies.  Her eyes track me as I skirt around her and hastily place her between myself and Cicely.</p><p>“And it’s <em> darling,” </em> Cecily says as demurely as she is able through her laughter.</p><p>“Right,” Fidelity says, seemingly as undone by Cicely as I am.  “Thanks.  Anyway, I need — Lady Fae, there was that thing, wasn’t there?”  She glances back at me and widens her eyes meaningfully.</p><p>“What thing?” I ask.</p><p>“You know, the thing.  That thing you said you would help me with earlier.”  Fidelity raises her eyebrows as high as they will go.</p><p>“Right,” I say, <em> “That </em> thing.  I almost forgot.”</p><p>Fidelity turns back to Cicely and smiles wide and fake.  “I’m so sorry, but I simply must steal Lady Fae away — prior engagement, you know.  You understand, don’t you?”  Fidelity takes my hand in both of hers.</p><p>By this point, Cicely is entirely red in the face and she seems to be having difficulty breathing.  “Yes!” she gasps through her fingers, which she has pressed to her mouth (for all the good that does her).  “Of course!  Please!”  She makes a shooing motion towards us.  “I wouldn’t dream of interfering!”</p><p>As we make our goodbyes and turn to leave, Fidelity’s arm in my own, Cicely calls out: “Have fun you two!”  We quit the scene as quickly as possible, but it is not quickly enough to miss the shriek of laughter that clings to our heels.</p><p>“What was that all about?” Fidelity asks, once we are far enough away that we feel safe slowing our pace.</p><p>“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I reply, “But it was extremely horrible.  Anyway, did you actually need my help with something, or..?”</p><p>“Nope!” she says cheerily as we amble towards the refreshments table.  “Just thought you looked in dire need of rescuing.”</p><p><em> “Thank you,” </em> I say with feeling.</p><p>As we near the refreshments, I catch sight of Ilaria Valance standing at the far end of the table.  She is, as ever, dressed entirely in black: from her lips, to the high neck of her gown, to the tall, shiny gloves that end just below her shoulders.  Ilaria holds a small plate in one hand and a strawberry in the other and she seems to be talking at (rather than to) an anxious eyed Jasper, who less resembles a conversational partner than he does a hostage.</p><p>“Strange, isn’t it, the way death begets life,” Ilaria muses.  One by one, she peels away the strawberry’s sepals and stem with those long, black clad fingers.  Jasper watches wide-eyed and nervous.  Ilaria plucks the last of the greenery from the strawberry and then turns the bared fruit over in her fingers.  </p><p>“I’ve oft wondered if I’ve unwittingly consumed a loved one, you know, perhaps a cousin or my dear departed father, sun rest his soul.”  Ilaria takes a moment to sign the symbol of the sun, strawberry still in hand, and exhale a doleful sigh.  She stares down at the fruit in her fingers, contemplating it.  “Flesh unto ash, ash unto earth, earth unto fruit, fruit unto flesh.”  And with that proclamation, she bites the strawberry in half, her paint-stained teeth rending its flesh.</p><p>Jasper exhales a squeak.</p><p>Having finished the fruit, Ilaria regards Jasper with a sort of mild curiosity that borders on indifference.  “You lost someone recently, did you not?” she asks.</p><p>Jasper’s expression slams shut like a door directly to the face.</p><p>“It’s poetic, I think,” Ilaria continues, either oblivious or uncaring.  “A final act of love given to us by the last holdings of their mortal being.  It’s a circle: death and life and death again.  Personally, I —”</p><p>“Lady Ilaria,” I say, a forced smile on my face as I approach her, “It is so very lovely to see you again.”  I am not so heartless as to leave Jasper to this solitary torture.  He looks about ready to shrivel.</p><p>Ilaria looks up and regards me from over her nose.  “Good evening, Lady Fae, Lady Fidelity.”  She nods crisply to the both of us.</p><p>“Good evening,” I reply and pluck a slice of apple topped with a wedge of cheese from a platter below.  “Did you know that sometimes deer will lay atop decaying corpses because they emit heat?”</p><p>“That is <em> fascinating,” </em>Ilaria replies, her black eyes alight with interest, while Fidelity mimes barfing at my other side.  “Is something the matter, Lady Fidelity?  Are you ill?”</p><p>“I think Lady Fidelity was simply mimicking how bodies can sometimes periodically burp after death,” I say quickly.  “She’s very cultured like that.”</p><p>“Delightful,” Ilaria says without a hint of sarcasm.  “I must say, Lady Fae, I am pleasantly surprised by your thanatological knowledge.  In all honesty, I thought you to be somewhat boorish upon our first meeting, but it seems I was not privy to the full depth of your character.”</p><p>I bare my teeth at her in something approximating a grin.  “That’s me,” I reply.  “Full of hidden depths.”</p><p>“Tell me,” Ilaria says, her tone lofty, “If the land that feeds the people is also fed <em> by </em> the people, are we not, in some form, cannibals?  What hope do we humans have as moral creatures if we are required by the needs of our bodies to consume, however indirectly, our own?”  She pauses for no other purpose than to look smug at her own philosophizing.  “It really makes one think, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I reply, glancing down to pick idly at something under one of my fingernails.  “If that’s enough to write off the moral aptitude of the entire human race, then I think it’s already a forgone conclusion considering how much dead skin we inhale with every breath.  Humanity is inherently gross.”</p><p>“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jasper says and leans heavily over the table, his hands pressed to its surface as he tries not to gag.</p><p>“Is there a problem here?” calls a sweet voice and in sweeps a blandly pretty woman dressed entirely in beige.  It’s — what’s her name.  Parvati.  Pachisi.  Panini.  Something like that.</p><p>“No,” I say at the same time that Jasper says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Not at all, Lady Pavani, we were simply engaging in a philosophical discussion inspired by tonight’s meal,” Ilaria says, her smile cobweb thin.  </p><p>Ah.  Pavani.  That’s it.  I haven’t seen her since the night I stole her stuff.  I try covertly to shrink back behind Fidelity.</p><p>“I am so glad to hear that the refreshments could provide not only nourishment, but entertainment as well,” Pavani says, her tone mild.  “I was worried that there was an issue with tonight’s spread.  Father would be ever so ashamed if the royal pantry had provided substandard goods for our festivities.  He takes such great pride in his work, after all.”</p><p>“Everything is perfectly in order, my lady,” Jasper assures her.</p><p>“Yes, it’s all entirely lovely,” Fidelity pipes up.</p><p>Pavani smiles graciously as her eyes shift to Fidelity — and then to me.  There is a moment — and awkward, stilted breath — where we both stare at each other.  The next second, the tension evaporates and Pavani is smiling again and I wonder if it was merely a projection of my own apprehension.</p><p>“Oh, dear, but you must pardon my rudeness!  I’m afraid I’ve not yet made your acquaintance,” she says as she pivots my way.</p><p>I peek out from behind Fidelity.  “Lady Pavani, was it?” I say, my voice gone all breathy.  She smiles and nods.</p><p>“Lady Pavani, I’d like to introduce to you my friend Lady Fae,” Fidelity says, with more grace than I usually give her credit for.</p><p>We make some truly insipid small talk, occasionally interrupted by unsavory tidbits from Ilaria, and every now and then I find Pavani’s eyes upon me.  There is a keenness in her gaze that unsettles me.  Eventually, I rush to fill a plate with an arrangement of random foods and then make some excuse about wanting to find someplace quiet to eat.  My words accepted, I flee the scene, abandoning both Fidelity and Jasper and only feeling mildly penitent.</p><p>I feel, strangely, as if I’ve spent near the entire night escaping from one conversation to the next.  In my usual guise, I’d never have such troubles.  My attention carries weight and, with that, an amount of influence.  I do what I want, when I want, and that includes telling people to fuck off when they bother me.  </p><p>Fae does not have that same force.  I don’t usually care about making people like me because by the essence of my very being (both my nature and my station), it is easy to get what I want, regardless of how people feel about me, and I find that, in spite of my treatment of them, they usually favor me regardless.  I still don’t know if I care about making people like me — I certainly don’t care about most of them, at any rate.  But I think I <em> do </em> care about <em> some </em> of them and that unsettles me greatly.</p><p>It’s weird to suddenly have to navigate that lack of clout — and weirder still do to so of my own volition.  I needn’t appear as Fae any longer.  I don’t know why I keep doing so.</p><p>I wander the party aimlessly, picking up little bits of conversations here and there.  No one takes overt interest in me and no one stops me.  I feel at concert with the lights above: drifting here and there without notice or care.  It’s peaceful, in a way, and it’s unsettling as well.  Of course, that feeling of peace shatters the moment I see Lysithea.</p><p>She stands in the middle of a crowd, her chest thrust forward proudly, and there upon her breast glitters a golden dragon pendant, the proof of her triumph in the Titan Bowl.  She recounts her trials, boasting loudly of her victories to any and all who will listen.  At her left, Alyssum stands there giggling into her glass, her face flushed from laughter or drink or both.</p><p>Lysithea’s audience is comprised entirely of women — young women, glittering and giddy, their faces shining with their own boldness.  She flirts with them all shamelessly: pulling in near to whisper to one before retreating; touching a hand, a lock of hair, a cheek; standing just a bit closer than is necessary.  It’s like an elaborate game of sexy chicken — Lysithea tests the boundaries of her influence and the women test their own daring to consort with one so controversial as she.</p><p>Before I can drift away from this, too, Alyssum spots me.  She puts her arm through mine and pulls me into the fold, giggling all the while.  Lysithea watches us, grinning, as Alyssum leans her head upon my shoulder.  Her breath is warm and spicy and sharp with drink as it gusts across my neck and jaw.  The pillow of her breast presses into my arm.  Lysithea and Alyssum each filch from my plate until it is left empty.  I grumble, but in truth I don’t terribly mind — save for the way the cheese makes Alyssum’s breath smell.  I wrinkle my nose.</p><p>When Lysithea asks if I saw her recent triumph in the Titan Bowl, I say, “Yes, though it’s not as if I went to see <em> you.” </em></p><p>Lysithea draws back, one hand held to her breast, her face drawn in a look of mock offense.  “You wound me!” she exclaims, her voice pitched high with melodrama.  “And to think I spent the whole day wondering desperately — nay, beseeching my God, rest her inerrant soul — all for want of your regard.  What would you say if I told you I had sought that victory in your honor?”</p><p>“I’d say you’re full of shit.”</p><p>The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.  I go still, panic seizing my heart, as I watch a number of courtiers give me looks of surprise or reproach.  One young lady is so scandalized she gasps loudly.  I flush.</p><p>Luckily, Lysithea doesn’t seem to mind.  She throws back her head, her silvery hair dancing like a waterfall in moonlight, and laughs, full chested and bright.  Alyssum, too, seems more amused than upset.  Her breath has quickened: I can feel the little gusts of glee against my neck.  Eventually, Lysithea settles into a grin that is half appreciative, half appraising, her argent eyes narrowed as they consider me.</p><p>“You’ve got spark,” she says.  “I’ve always liked that about you.”</p><p>“Are you sure about that?” I ask, remembering one time she very much did <em> not </em> like that about me.</p><p>“I like a challenge,” Lysithea replies, grinning.  </p><p>Then she laughs and winks and flags down a passing server.  Soon, not a one of us lacks for drink.  Alyssum smiles slyly and covertly rummages in one of her pockets, angling her body so that the flask she retrieves is hidden between us.  She pours first into her own glass and then into mine.</p><p>“You’ll thank me later,” she whispers into my ear, her voice breathy with mirth.</p><p>I take a sip and splutter.  It’s not bad, but it’s strong: an overwhelming forward taste of cinnamon that rushes straight to my nose.  I startle and sneeze, near spilling my drink, and sending Alyssum into a renewed fit of giggles that leaves her trembling and gasping beside me.  She is not particularly well endowed, but there is enough there to make a compelling sight and I find I have a difficult time taking my eyes from that giddy red mouth of hers.  I drink, a lot, and each time I empty my glass she plies me with more.</p><p>More servers pass and at some point someone must arrange to have a small platter of finger foods brought to us and set upon a small folding table, for that is what happens.  Lysithea leans over the platter and plucks from it a single grape.  She considers it for a moment before nearing me and pressing it to my lips.  Too shocked to do otherwise, I accept it, and when it bursts between my teeth, my mouth is flooded with a vibrant sweetness.  Lysithea holds my gaze the entire time.  </p><p>Alyssum has her hand folded around my upper arm.  The backs of her curled fingers press gently into the side of my breast and it’s so casual, so normal, a skinship as careless as breathing.  I feel caught in the middle of a spinning vortex of dancing lights, warm and dizzy and bright, overwhelmed by the ease of it all.</p><p>I feel something solid press into the arch where my neck turns to shoulder and I jolt.</p><p>“Why, Lady Fae, I didn’t expect to see you tonight.  What a pleasant surprise.”  The voice is smooth and warm and rich: dark velvet and a crackling fire, hot chai and snowfall on the other side of a window.  I feel the tickle of her long, curly hair brushing my shoulders and back, the warmth of her breath as it raises gooseflesh down my neck, the gentle seizing of my heart as her scent floods my nose.  Allene.</p><p>As I turn, she straightens and smiles.  “Good evening, ladies,” she says breezily.  </p><p>Caed stands at Allene’s side, her arm in his, and our group readily makes room for them as the young ladies chorus an eager greeting.  Whether by chance or design, Allene ends up beside me, opposite Alyssum.</p><p>Allene takes my shoulders in hand and surveys me, smiling, her eyes twinkling with some secret mirth.  I don’t have to wait long to discover what mischief that belies.</p><p>“Lady Fae,” she says and takes my hand in hers, her thumb brushing over my beringed fingers, “You look so lovely tonight.”  She raises my arm and spins me about slowly.  I follow her lead, a little dizzy and confused and pleasantly buzzed.  My rotation complete, she turns from me, though she doesn’t release my hand.  “Don’t you think so, Caederyn?”  She smiles back at him beatifically.</p><p>Caed stares down at me, his eyes wide and lips parted, a strand of hair blown into his open mouth by some lovestruck breeze.  He looks utterly and completely stupefied, a man in crisis.  I’d think him turned to stone if it weren’t for the steady flush rising in his face.</p><p>I don’t know how long we stare at each other, our gazes tethered, a rope pulled taut between us — until it snaps.  Alyssum laughs and leans back into me, her hand at my shoulder, her breath hot on my ear.</p><p>“She does, doesn’t she?” Alyssum breaths.  She presses a messy kiss to my cheek and when she pulls away her red lip paint is smudged at the edges.  She laughs again, a lilting, wispy sound, and tips sideways into me.</p><p>As Alyssum wraps her arms about my neck, Caed answers: “Yes.  She does.”  His voice is a muted thing, so quiet I’d miss it if I hadn’t been listening so desperately.</p><p>Allene squeezes my hand — and I startle for I’d forgotten she was holding it — before releasing it.  She rejoins Caed, both her arms wrapping around one of his, and the moment ends.  The conversation swells around us and I stand there, quietly overwhelmed, a drink in hand and a lady wrapped around my shoulders.  In truth, Alyssum is the only thing keeping me steady, for though she continues to put more and more of her weight upon me, she is nevertheless a solid presence keeping me in check.  I feel that without her I may have vibrated clean out of my skin.</p><p>Our number shifts: some leaving, others (including Fidelity and Pavani) joining.  They seem to have struck up some sort of friendship, though what they could have talked about to reach such amity evades me.  Lysithea flirts with the both of them as readily as she does everyone else, though I find I don’t believe it to be much more than the performance that, at this point, is expected of her.  </p><p>I wonder why she does it.  I think, in some way, Allene might have been more receptive of her advances if they had ever been made in earnest.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they grew up too close and Allene would never have been able to see her that way.  </p><p>Maybe Lysithea makes it too easy: she makes herself an open door in the hopes that someday Allene might wonder at what was on the other side.  For better or for worse, I have now spent a considerable amount with Allene and have witnessed (in some measure) both her courtship of Caed and myself.  I think she likes the intrigue and she likes the challenge.  She likes the long process of untangling a person, of peeking through the cracks in their edifice to see what might be — of coaxing open a door bolted and barred and soldered shut.</p><p>I think I must be incredibly drunk.</p><p>My suspicions are buttressed when several minutes later, Alyssum’s hand slips and her drink spills down the front of my gown.  She manages to keep hold of her glass — barely — but its contents are lost, watering the ground and my Shiftweave rather than her thirst.  Alyssum gives a quiet wail and slides off me, lowering herself to crouching, bemoaning the loss of her drink.  She hardly seems to notice my involvement — not until she glances up and sees the amber-orange stain blooming across my front.  I know, at least, it is a transient stain, undone easily by the Shiftweave’s will.  She does not.</p><p>With some difficulty, she stands, swaying slightly, and retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket.  It takes several tries for her to get it.  “Lady Fae,” she hiccups, “Do forgive me.”  She speaks with too much dignity for one so thoroughly sloshed and I’d think her more sober than she is if I only heard her voice.  She pats remorsefully at my front and I watch, amused, as she misses time and again.  Eventually, her hands find the stain.  To her credit, she does try very hard.  However, the effectiveness of her actions leaves something to be desired.</p><p>“Alright,” I say, unable to hold off any longer, “I think you had best get to bed and I had best change.”</p><p>In the end, she doesn’t have much fight in her to refuse.  She tries — half-heartedly and disturbingly eloquently — but it is all for naught.  The group watches, some quiet, others laughing, and Lysithea heckling, as I lead Alyssum away.  I locate a servant at the clearing’s edge and hand her off to him — and then I wander.  The Shiftweave ripples against me until the stain fades and it is left blemishless once again.  As I walk, I consider my options.  I could call it a night.  I could stow myself away some place private, have the Shiftweave alter itself, and return.</p><p>Midway down one the conservatory’s tight, tiled paths, I see Eugenia.  She laughs when we meet, indolent and pleased to see me.  </p><p>“Lady Fae,” she says, and pauses before me.  “You’re looking well.”</p><p>Just looking at her is enough to test my self control.  Her dress is a flimsy thing, more a suggestion of clothing than the actuality of it.  It is made of a sheer fabric near the same color as her skin, embroidered daintily with a pale rainbow of shimmering scales that hugs her generous contours like a second skin.  All together, it creates the illusion of near nudity — save for her skirt, which falls in billowing folds of many layers of that same diaphanous material.  I want to rip it to shreds and take her immediately — here or anywhere, I don’t care.</p><p>“How are you enjoying the party?” Eugenia asks.</p><p>I think I’ve forgotten how to speak.  I remember, vaguely, that once I was practiced in the mechanics of it, but it seems an incomprehensible and distant thing now.</p><p>Someone passes us and Eugenia draws near to me to let them by.  She smells sweetly of lavender — lavender laced with the clinging musk of good herb.  Her eyes are near as colorless as her dress.</p><p>Eventually, I manage to utter a single word: “Good.”  It is a mangled thing, a word patched together from the many scattered pieces of my brain.</p><p>Eugenia smiles and leans in to whisper something in my ear — and then stops.</p><p>“There you are!” calls a sharp voice: Ilaria.  “Where have you been all evening?” she demands.</p><p>Eugenia sighs.  “Next time,” she breathes in my ear.  She begins to remove herself, but then stops, her eyes catching on something upon my face.  She leans back in quickly and presses her lips to my cheek — the same cheek Alyssum kissed — and simultaneously pushes something small into one of my hands.  Whatever it is, it’s warm.  This time, we do part, and she grins at me and says, “I’ll collect on the debt later,” and leaves.</p><p>I watch her go, dry-mouthed and dumb.  She and Ilaria head back into the party, bickering the whole way.  I shake my head and turn away.  I feel in desperate need of fresh air.</p><p>As my feet carry me across the narrow path, I open my hand to find what Eugenia left me: a crisply wrapped joint, half smoked, one end still smoldering.  I laugh, then, and without preamble I light it, cupping my hands over my mouth and blowing a small gout of flame over the tip.  The smell of it fills me, heady and sweet and ripe.</p><p>The world around me feels soft and strange, the sounds of distant laughter and conversation and the buzzing of insects all blending into one.  There is a balcony that runs the circumference of the inside of the conservatory and over the canopy I spy a small number of couples scattered across it.  Even from this distance, I can see the intimacy in their posture.</p><p>Eventually, I come to a clearing: the clearing with the pond and the statue of Koel and his Bonded, the place where I kissed Caed and he turned me away.  I’m surprised to find it empty at the moment.  I suck on the blunt and let the smoke fill my lungs.  I exhale and the world turns misty with the discharge.</p><p>I contemplate the statue: Solene’s steady hands, the proud curve of her neck, and the deep longing of Koel as he circles her.  I feel, strangely, as if the statue is looking back at me — or more correctly, as if Solene is, her carved gaze cast my way rather than over her shoulder as it should be.  Some trick of the light, surely.  The flame at the end of her spear flickers and dances, casting strange, moving shadows.  I frown and step closer, my eyes locked upon Solene’s face.</p><p>There’s something of Caed in her, I think.  Maybe it is her strong brow or the line of her jaw, or maybe it is simply the pathetic clinging of my own sentimentality.  I take another drag on the joint and exhale a plume of smoke.  From my vantage below her, it’s almost as if it is Koel’s breathing and not mine that brings this heat.</p><p>
  
</p><p>I’m still several paces from from the pond when I hear something.  I pause.  It’s a quiet sound, barely audible, like the creaking of tree limbs in the breeze or the far off tapping of a woodpecker.  I take another drag.  I exhale.  And I hear it again: a faint, distant knocking.  It grows louder with each strike, like a clock tower tolling midnight as you amble its way. </p><p>The air feels still here, caught on a breath, the hubbub of people and insects fading away.  So, too, has faded her flame: I must not have been paying as much attention as I thought, for when next I look, I find her spear snuffed, the light gone.  It’s grown dark without her flame — surprisingly so.  </p><p>A pale blue light graces the statue, sparkling in the rivulets of water that cascade down the rocks.  And these, too, are strange.  I realize with a start that the water has frozen — or not frozen, but it has stilled.  I can see each separate stream, each droplet, all of them glittering with moonlight, caught and held by nothing more than the air itself.  Halted as they are, they look almost like icicles — the ones that freeze diamond clear and bright, not colored by frost.</p><p>And the moon — I look and find the moon high and whole above.  Was it always so?  The dome has been rendered near invisible, consumed by the inky blackness of the sky beyond, and directly overhead is the moon: full and bright and looming large.  It feels near tangible, a disk of shining silver, so close I swear I could reach for it and maybe, just maybe, I could brush its face with my fingertips.</p><p>I don’t realize that I’ve begun to walk forward until I stumble.  Something hard and solid connects with the middle of my shin and my gaze is ripped from the moon’s face.  I feel the silence as a palpable thing, a pressure against my ears and nose, a weight that throws me off balance — and so I tumble, head first, that knocking growing ever more insistent.</p><p>I only just manage to catch myself.  My hands break my fall on the surface of the rough rocks that form the pool’s perimeter.  I feel the rasp of coarse stone against my skin and the slow blooming of blood on my scraped palms.  My shin smarts where it met the pool’s edge.  And the pool itself — it is flat and smooth, save for one point, where a small ripple slowly forms and breaks: the joint.  It must have gone flying from my fingers when I fell.</p><p>I reach for it and a droplet of blood rolls down my palm and hits the water’s face.  It sparks and spits and sizzles, a small flash of gold in the dimness, and then it is gone.  From that point where my blood met the water, a light forms, silvery and bright, and it spreads until it fills the pool’s entirety, until the water is a perfect mirror for the brilliant moon above.</p><p>And then I hear her.</p><p>“Hello, golden one.”</p><p>Her voice is perfectly clear.  It is a whisper.  It is a lilting song.  It is the first breath drawn after near drowning.  It is a secret shared between lovers before they find their doom.  The nymph.</p><p>Still bent over the pool, I look up, and I find Solene gazing down at me, a subtle smile on her stony lips.  She looks different now, although I couldn’t say how.  She looks soft, almost.  Supple.  She shimmers, her skin reflecting the moon’s brightness, turning from that stony gray to a gleaming white.  </p><p>She stretches and I can see the subtle shifting of muscles under the stone of her skin.  As she moves, the diaphanous folds of her dress flutter in some unfelt breeze.  It looks a thin and gauzy thing, barely there, its drapery broken by the crest of her nipples. </p><p>My mouth goes dry.  Belatedly, I straighten to standing.</p><p>She takes a step forward, and another one, and another, her steps delicate and purposeful.  Her toes touch the water’s surface and it holds her without even a ripple.  She walks forward until she is before me.  My breath comes out shy and slow.  She smiles at me like we share a secret.</p><p>The nymph reaches for me, and when her hands grasp my wrist I find her cool and solid but soft: like flesh, not stone.  She raises my palm to her lips and kisses it.  Her pliant lips press to the spot where blood has welled to the surface.  I watch as a bead of my blood, bright red and lively, rolls down my skin and touches her mouth.  She licks it away.  Her tongue is like velvet.  Where she touches, my skin turns to gilt scale.  I shudder.  She never once drops my gaze.</p><p>Eventually, she releases my hand.</p><p>“It has been too long,” she says.  She is so very close, close enough that I could meet her body in a couple short strides.  “I hope you don’t mind that I took it upon myself to visit.”  She smiles. </p><p>I stare at her dumbly as an insistent heat stokes within me.  I feel sticky inside: my voice stuck to my throat, my tongue grown thick and clumsy, my blood turned viscous in my veins.  Eventually I realize that she is waiting for an answer and so I nod, still unable to form the words.</p><p>“I like your new look,” she says.  She reaches forward and twines a colorless finger through a lock of my hair.  “I wonder how it tastes.”</p><p>Heat floods me.  It spreads in a flash: through my face and my neck and my chest and my nethers.  I am thick with it, my veins turned to lava flows, my cock swelling in answer, my clit going stiff and unrepentant.</p><p>She takes my hand in both of hers and I can hardly breathe.  I watch the shifting of her breasts, the slow smile that spreads across her lips.  She pulls me forward and I stumble and have to step up on to the pool’s ledge to follow.  Even with my new height, she is taller than me still.  She laces her fingers in mine and leans down, her mouth forming a ready kiss — but it’s not close enough, not quite, and so I step forward, the toe of my shoe just cresting the water, and —</p><p>The sound of something shattering, clear and sharp and bright, breaks through the silence.  My head whips around and I catch sight of someone over my shoulder — Lysithea, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight, her flute of champagne dashed to bits on the tiles below.</p><p>The nymph’s hand vanishes from mine and I am caught off balance and unsupported.  I waver and for a moment it seems as if I may be able to right myself — and then I plunge headlong into the pool before me.</p><p>When I surface, Solene is above me once again, as solid and stony as she should be.  Sound comes back in a rush, the gentle murmur of chatting guests and the low buzz of insects and the trilling of a nightingale flooding my ears.  Water runs down the rocks as it should, splashing quietly into the pond’s surface.  The pool hisses and steams where it touches my flesh and I hastily force myself to cool down, to calm myself.  It is not easily done.  </p><p>And Lysithea — she is there, still, several paces back, her mouth gaping wide.</p><p>“What—” she begins.</p><p>I hastily fish the joint out of the pool and hold it up for her to see.  “I dropped this and then — well — I think I must be more drunk than I’d realized.”  My voice comes out strange, cracking awkwardly as my vocal cords constrict prematurely.  I rub a hand over my throat.</p><p>Lysithea approaches me, skirting around the shards of broken glass to stand at the pool’s side.  She looks me over, her face taut with apprehension.</p><p>“Are you alright?” she asks, voice low.</p><p>“Alright enough,” I answer.</p><p>I don’t know how much Lysithea saw — or what she saw.  I want to know, to ask — but I don’t want to risk letting on that anything out of the ordinary happened at all if she didn’t see it.  She’s foolhardy but she’s not <em> stupid </em> and I don’t much like the idea of having to explain any of this.</p><p>“What—” she tries again, but we are both distracted by the sight of Allene.  </p><p>She bursts out from another path, the main one that leads back most directly to the party.  Her eyes are wide and she stops quickly as soon as she spots us.  She’s holding something in her left hand and the tip of it glows with a faint blue light, but before I can see what it is she hastily stows it into her pocket before approaching us.</p><p>“Wh... what in the name of the Laws is going on?” she demands, winded.  “Fe— Lady Fae, what are you doing sitting in a fountain??”</p><p>“I dropped something and then I fell,” I reply.</p><p>I stand with a grumble and water streams down my body like rain off the eaves of a house.  I step out of the pond and over its rocky border and grimace.  I wring out first my (inconveniently long) hair and then the long skirt of the Shiftweave.  It can dry itself well enough but I’d rather not risk Lysithea noticing that.  Allene watches me, amused, and I scowl at her.</p><p>“Seems like <em> someone’s </em> very popular tonight,” Allene muses.</p><p>“What,” I reply, water streaming from my person.</p><p>Allene smiles and taps one of her cheeks.</p><p>“Oh.”  I grimace and raise a hand to wipe at my cheek, but before I can reach it, she catches my wrist.</p><p>“No, leave it,” she says, laughing.  </p><p>I scowl at her but acquiesce regardless.  Whatever.  It doesn’t matter.  “What are <em> you </em> doing here, Princess?” I ask grumpily.  “Weren’t you busy spending time with C— with your fiancé?  What had you in such a rush to leave — what, did he bore you so thoroughly you had to flee?”</p><p>Allene rolls her eyes.  “If you must know, I was headed to the lavatory,” she replies primly.  She shrugs and throws her long hair over one shoulder with a truly impressive amount of dignity.  It’s all very fluid: her tone, the answer, the accompanying gesture.  I’d believe it if I hadn’t see her holding — whatever that thing was.</p><p>“Well, guess you’d better get going then,” I say and smile.</p><p>“The urge has passed.”  Allene turns to look at Lysithea, then, and asks, “Anyway — Lysithea, dear, I’m surprised to find you away from the party!  Last I saw, you had several young ladies eyeing you with intent.”  She smiles and draws nearer to the both of us.</p><p>Lysithea glances between me and Allene.  I continue to wring out my person as best I am able.</p><p>“I got bored,” Lysithea answers at last.  A grin flickers on her face, bright and sudden like the moon emerging from thick cloud cover.  “Actually, I was thinking about sneaking out.  Not that your party isn’t fun, Allene, but I’m not really feeling it.”</p><p>“Where would you even <em> go?” </em> I ask incredulously.</p><p>Lysithea shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Somewhere in town.  It’s a beautiful night and it’s the weekend, there must be <em> something </em> going on <em> somewhere.” </em></p><p>“Really?” I ask, brow raised.  “You know you’re, like, simultaneously incredibly conspicuous and very unpopular here, right?  Like, some people have gotten used to you, but most of the country—”  The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them.  I only stop due to the look Allene gives me, her brows raised, her mouth drawn tight in a grimace.  I hastily shut my mouth and wait on a held breath for Lysithea to explode in three... two... one...</p><p>Lysithea throws her head back and laughs, full stomached and boisterous, her silvery hair gleaming all about her face.  When she’s done, she grins and loops one arm through mine (seemingly unbothered by my wetness) and the other through Allene’s.  “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’ve got you both to protect me from those mean, close minded Nadarans, isn’t it?”  She winks.</p><p>I stare back at her in surprise.</p><p>“Unless, of course, you’d rather hang out in this fountain,” Lysithea continues, her voice dropping.</p><p>I go stiff.  “You know what!!” I say hurriedly.  “A night on the town sounds super fun!!  Super duper fun!!”</p><p>Allene stares at the both of us, one brow quirked, her mouth edging towards a smile.  “Sure,” she says at last, after a much longer pause than is comfortable.  “Why not?  We’ll have a girls’ night out.”  She grins at me and together the three of us exit the conservatory and sneak into the mews.</p><p>We are not all together very quiet about it.  At first I attempt to wrangle some swiftwyrms on my own, but Lysithea makes a fuss saying that they’re much too conspicuous for a jaunt into town.  With rides as fine as those, we’d be picked out immediately as members of the high nobility at the very least.  So we head for the end of the stables that houses the horses, and there either drawn by the sound of our bickering or by sheer bad luck, we run into a stablehand — who we then proceed to bribe and cajole in equal measures until he agrees to tack up a couple horses to a carriage and not tattle on us.  </p><p>I don’t wholly believe him, but he lets us be, and soon we’re off.  The carriage is small — small enough that Lysithea and Allene cannot sit opposite each other and so, as the shortest, I am forced to sit across from Lysithea.  I spend the first few minutes making awkward eye contact with her, our knees knocking together with every jostle of the coach.  Still, it’s invigorating to be sneaking out so late and to not be doing so alone.  Caed would never.</p><p>There’s a bit of trouble at the gate at the foot of the hill, but Allene pokes her head out and says something to the guards on duty and soon we’re tearing down the narrow roads of Old Town.  </p><p>The stablehand, now our driver, asks us where we’re headed and we give him less a destination than a laundry list of expectations: somewhere open late, somewhere fun, somewhere with drinks and games where our party garb won’t be too terribly out of place.  While we ride, I covertly warm my body enough to dry my clothes through and through.  It’s so dark out, the sky so black and vast, with only the faintest peppering of stars in the heavens and the occasional pocket of light and laughter bursting from a building here and there.  </p><p>As we ride through Soliss, the landscape changes around us.  Old Town opens up to broader streets and the clatter of hoof beats strikes a merry rhythm on the cobblestones below.  There’s something exhilarating about it — we’re almost the only ones on the road and I feel as if we could ride forever into the blackness and never lose the fun of it.  It’s still awkward between us, but the feeling is dissipating with the sweet promises whispered by the black sky.  Lysithea pulls a flask from her pocket and we pass it around and drink and laugh.</p><p>Eventually, we end up in Feliza, a little neighborhood tucked between Little Ogren and Szerentown.  Here, the night is young, and lights, bright and warm, come streaming out of near every window.  There is music and laugher bursting from every corner, from within the buildings and without.  Young people of about our age hang about the streets in clusters, hanging off lampposts and leaning against walls.  </p><p>The carriage rolls to a stop outside one of the more posh looking bars.  Allene thanks the driver and they confer for a moment before he pulls off to the side to await our return.  Lysithea opens the carriage door and we tumble out, jelly-limbed and giddy and not at all sober.</p><p>Inside, it’s packed: soft lights and loud music and beautiful people.  The doorman takes one look at our clothing and lets us in without a word (though his eyes linger on Lysithea).  We order our drinks and through a mix of coercion and bullying, we secure a tiny table at the back end of the bar.  It’s just big enough for the three of us to crowd around it, our knees brushing and elbows knocking.  </p><p>Lysithea leans over to whisper something to Allene, but it’s so loud inside that she has to shout to make herself heard.  Allene laughs with her entire body, full chested and bright, and I find my eyes drawn to her, my cheeks warm with more than just drink.  I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for ages: the magnetism of her, the way she fills a room.  But now, so close, with the ghost of her breath on my shoulder, our thighs occasionally brushing — I can’t look away.</p><p>Allene leaves us eventually to fetch more drinks and the spell is broken.  I glance at Lysithea and find her watching the princess’ departing back.  Then she meets my eyes and her expression closes, her shining eyes gone narrow and calculating, her mouth turned shrewd.</p><p>“Allene was right earlier,” Lysithea says over the hubbub.  “You do look lovely tonight.”  She pulls in close to me, her warm breath washing over my neck.  She lifts a hand and twines a lock of my hair through her fingers.  She looks at me from under a hood of silver lashes.  She smiles.  “It’s such a beautiful color on you.”</p><p>I watch her, eyes wide, scarcely breathing, wondering if this is really happening, if she’s really going for it.  My hands tighten around my glass and I take a hasty gulp.  Lysithea sets her elbow on the table and leans towards me, her chin resting casually in her palm, and watches me.  She’s much too close.</p><p>“Tell me, how did you manage it?” Lysithea asks, her voice only barely raised above the noise of the crowd.</p><p>“Manage what?” I ask, finally putting my glass back down on the table.</p><p>She lets my lock of hair fall from her fingers and brushes the knuckle of her pointer finger against my collar.  “You got the stain out,” she muses.  I feel the Shiftweave ripple beneath her touch.  I go entirely still.</p><p>“I—” I begin, my sluggish mind desperately attempting to rouse itself.  “The fountain—”</p><p>“I’m baaaack!” Allene calls.  “Did you miss me, girls?”  </p><p>With a burst of color and sound, Allene returns, and behind her trails a server with a platter piled high with food and drinks.  It doesn’t all fit on the tiny table between us and so we keep the platter and have to scoot our chairs out to accommodate it.</p><p>Lysithea hastily draws away from me, but not quickly enough before Allene swoops in behind us and pulls us both into a tight embrace.  Her hair brushes against me and her scent is strong in my nose.  It’s hard <em> not </em> to be overwhelmed.  </p><p>Allene takes her seat between us and I watch as something within Lysithea eases like a ship pulling into harbor.  And I remember, for the first time in ages, our truce.  We haven’t talked of it since the engagement ball where the concept was first birthed.  Truth be told, I’ve hardly seen her since, outside my appearances as Lady Fae.  Maybe we would have spoken of it if I hadn’t jumped directly into my own schemes, schemes that I could not include her in.  Maybe if I’d done that, if I’d conspired with her properly, the engagement would have been called off by now and Caed would be alone — alone and <em> mine. </em></p><p>That thought doesn’t bring with it quite the flood of anticipation that it used to.  I like Allene.  It hits me all at once.  She glances back at me, smiling at something Lysithea’s just said, and I know it.  Her thigh presses gently to mine.  She reaches for my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze before releasing it.  The band starts up a song she knows and joy breaks upon her face like the sun rising in the east.  She stands and joins in, only sort of holding a tune, and soon she has roused the entire bar to singing.</p><p>Allene pulls me up with her and then we’re dancing, her hands on my hips, her breath in my ear.  Lysithea quickly joins us, falling in behind Allene.  It’s a truly chaotic jumble of limbs, a confusion of movement that attempts to combine the dances native to all our homes and fails to really be any one of them.  We are much too close together for Nadaran dance and we are moving much too fast for it to be Voswainian either.  I don’t know what Larish dances are like, but I assume they must involve a lot of twirling because Lysithea takes to spinning us both about in turns.  She kisses us each on the cheek and her lips are soft and cool.</p><p>It’s strange and raucous and giddy and the most fun I’ve had in ages.  Allene is laughing and laughing and laughing, so vibrant and happy and free, like the world spins just for her.</p><p>I like her and I can’t deny it or avoid it any longer.  And I’m pretty sure she feels the same — or at the very least, she likes playing with me.  But I think that underneath that, there is something real between us.  I don’t know how it happened.  I never wanted it to.  I sowed the ground with anger and envy and spite and somehow, from that, something bloomed.  I don’t know its shape yet, but I know it’s more than just sex.  </p><p>I’ve slept with others before and since and it’s never anything near what it is with her.  I could sleep with just about anyone if I wanted and it would be fine, and yet I’ve come back time and again to one woman, to Allene, to the woman my prince is courting.  It burns me somewhat.  I don’t know if Caed has realized.  Part of me hopes he has and part of me hopes he hasn’t.  I could refuse Allene — and maybe I should.  Maybe if I were better, kinder, if I were good — maybe I would.  But I haven’t.  And I won’t.</p><p>When we return to the palace, the sky is that weak black that threatens the approach of dawn.  My eyes burn with fatigue, but in a deeply satisfying way, echoing the exhaustion of my body, the evidence of a night well spent.  Lysithea parts from us first, as her chambers are the furthest from ours.  She breaks away from us with the reluctance of one stubbornly hanging on to a night’s hard won revelry.  Before we part, she kisses us each square on the mouth before laughing stumbling away.  Allene and I head off together arm in arm, meandering down the halls, our steps uneven.  </p><p>Allene sways as we walk and I have to steady her time and again until we reach her door.  I’ve burned off some of the alcohol in my system, but Allene is still entirely sloshed and so it falls to me to help her inside.  When I fish the key from her pocket and usher her in, she starts giggling so hard that she collapses into me and presses me against the door as it shuts behind us.</p><p>“Oh nooooo,” she wheezes, her voice gone all small and thin.  “Oh no, Fé, I think my legssss are... I... think they stopped woooorking...”</p><p>“Your legs work just fine,” I say and pull her arm around my shoulders.  </p><p>She leans into me heavily, her lips brushing my ear.  Then she presses a finger to my lips and and shushes me noisily.  “Shhhhhh.  Fé, you’ve got to be quiet or you’ll wake them up!”  She chides me in a loud whisper, her words slurring together.</p><p><em> “You’re </em> the one being loud,” I reply, grimacing as we take a lurching step together.  Allene wraps her other arm around me as well and loses herself to another fit of giggles.  Her lips brush my throat.</p><p>I walk her back to her room with a sort of grim determination.  Luckily, we don’t seem to rouse Fidelity or Clemence — not when Allene starts humming the bar tune from before and not when she accidentally knocks me into the piano and sends up a clatter of bass notes.  She shushes me loudly for this as well and I bear it all with as much good humor as I possess — which is not much, but enough.</p><p>The door presents some difficulty.  It’s hard for me to open it with her acting the way she is<em> . </em>  Her hands wander my body lazily and with the confidence of the truly unselfconscious.  It makes it very difficult to focus, but I prevail.  Somehow.  I lead her to her bed and when I try to lay her down, her fingers lock behind my neck and she pulls me down with her.</p><p>“Feon...” she croons, stretching out the second syllable of my name.  “Won’t you come to bed with me?”  She pulls one hand free from the other so she can run the tip of her forefinger across my bottom lip.  “Pleeeeease?”  She bats her eyelashes at me.  “I’ve wanted you aaaaall night,” she says, her voice low and raspy, her words stretched long and indolent.  “‘Been thinking about your body.”</p><p>Her eyes are coals in the shadow of her room.  The predawn light outside is a young, weak thing.  She has me straddling her waist, and though I am exhausted, I feel my body responding.  She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat and pulls me down into a sloppy kiss.  Her hand brushes my chest, my stomach, my thigh.  </p><p>“I want to fuck you proper,” she breathes.  She fights valiantly to speak cohesively.  “I may not have... your... you... the way your body...”  She pauses and frowns in thought.  “You know.  But I can make do.”  She grins up at me lazily, her eyes half-lidded.  “The way Caed was looking at you earlier...”  She laughs, low and breathy, and I can hear the dark intent implied.  My cock gives an involuntary twitch in my trousers.</p><p>I groan, feeling much too hot and much too tired.  Her palm brushes over my clothed dick and she grins.  “Allene,” I gasp, pressing into her hand.  She obliges me readily.  I shift atop her for a better angle and feel something press into my thigh.  “What—” I begin, frowning.  “Allene, what’s that big hard thing in your pocket?” I ask.</p><p>She dissolves into a fit of giggles that lasts so long I think I might die.  The tremors roll through her body and up into me.  It’s very distracting.  If I don’t get off or get sleep within the next five minutes I will revolt.  Frustrated, I move off her and reach into her pocket since she’s still laughing too hard to do it herself.  I grasp around until I find something firm and pull it out.  In my hand is the long dagger, the one with the eye of a strix for its pommel, the one that was stabbed deep into Caed’s leg.  Its cloth wrapping falls free as I brandish it.</p><p>“What the fuck?” I ask very eloquently, my brow furrowed.</p><p>Allene stares up at me and at the dagger, her eyes unfocused like she can’t quite decide where she should be looking.  But at least she’s finally stopped laughing.  “Mmmmmwhat?” she says, the sounds all sticking together.</p><p>“The dagger,” I say, impatient, “Why was it in your pocket?”</p><p>“Ohhhhhhhhh,” she says.  “Right.  Yeah.”  She lapses into silence, then, and I wait patiently for her to continue.  When she doesn’t, I reach forward and pinch her.  “Ow!  Wazzat for?”  She swats at my hand and misses.</p><p>“Why do you have the dagger on you?” I ask.</p><p>“I put a...”  Here, her face scrunches up in thought for a moment.  “A — a thingy.  A spell.  So it would — it gave a <em> ping </em> and — you know!”  She flaps her hand at me vaguely.</p><p>“I really, truly don’t,” I reply.</p><p>“After — what’s his face.  Gooden.  We cobbled together a — a spell.  Me and him and — and Ebner.  Got it done last night.  Wasn’t sure it’d work.  But I started carrying the dagger with me just in case and tonight — tonight there was <em> something.” </em>  She breathes the word out, all wide-eyed and excited, and then her face breaks out into an unsteady grin.  </p><p>“It got hot — lit up — so I went to follow it, y‘know, but then it started to flicker out and that’s when I saw — when you were in the fountain and Lysithea...”  She huffs a sigh.  “Well, I couldn’t have <em> her </em> knowing, y’know, on account of... of Caed and... and <em> politics </em> and...” </p><p>“Yeah, I got that bit,” I reply.  I’m following along as best I’m able, but I still feel like she’s leaving a lot out.  Still, it’s the best I’m likely to get out of her in this state.</p><p>Allene pauses to turn and yawn into her shoulder.  “Anyway, by the time I got away from you both to check the knife, it’d stopped.”  She looks blearily back up at me, her gaze vague and unfocused.  “What were you doing anyway?”</p><p>I flush and stammer some mess about smoking and dropping my joint in the pond and she just sighs and pats my cheek.</p><p>“You’re a shitty liar,” she says and yawns again.</p><p>“And you’re an obnoxious drunk,” I reply.  “Get some fucking sleep.”  I attempt to climb off her body, but she latches on to me, one hand on my thigh, the other wrapped around my wrist.</p><p>“Nooooooo,” she whines.  “C’mon.  Stay.  Or tell me.  Tell me or stay.  Or both.”</p><p>I groan.  “I really hate you.  Like, a lot.”  But there’s no heat in my words.  Allene just grins up at me until I relent.  “Fine — there was a.  There’s a woman.  I see her sometimes.  Not a — not a human.  She’s some sort of fae.  She... visited me tonight.”</p><p>Allene makes an “o” shape with her mouth.  “Well if she’s... if she’s fae... maybe she can help us with it?” she says.  “Since she seems to like you.  Can you call her back?”</p><p>“I — I don’t know,” I reply.  “Come — C‘mon, Allene, I won’t leave, but you have to let me <em> move.” </em>  </p><p>She releases me, finally, and I slide off her body and to the side.  She’s half on the bed, half off, and after a few moments of internal debate, I stand up and drag her the rest of the way on to bed.  She grumbles all the while and she’s very grabby about the whole endeavor.  I try to tuck her under the covers with only middling success and she spends the entire time half-heartedly wheedling.</p><p>“It’s almost properly morning,” I say, frustrated.  “I <em> have </em> to go — unless you want Fidelity and Clemence to find us together.”</p><p>“I know,” she mumbles wetly and then hiccups.  She sniffs loudly.  Sun above, I think she may have started crying.</p><p><em> “Allene,” </em> I hiss, in part aggravated and in part endeared.  </p><p>Her hands fist stubbornly in the hem of the Shiftweave.  She turns her head and kisses my palm, my fingers, her lips brushing the glinting rings upon them.  It’s such a gentle thing, so very tender, and it does me in in one fell swoop.  With an aggrieved sigh, I climb under the covers beside her.  We’re both still fully dressed, which promises for an uncomfortable waking.  Allene snuggles in against me, her arms pulling me to her, her chin resting upon my head.</p><p>“I’m just staying until you fall asleep,” I say, stifling a yawn.</p><p>“Mmm,” she replies.</p><p>She tucks my head into her chest.  One of her arms curls under me and around the back of my head.  She is so very soft, the swell of her body acquiescing to my form.  I feel thoroughly at a loss — undone by the whole thing and unable to make sense of whatever I’ve conscripted myself to.  I very resolutely do my best to stay awake until I feel her breathing grow steady and slow.</p><p>The next thing I know, it is fully morning and the sun in shining through Allene’s gauzy curtains with an obnoxious amount of cheer.  We’ve moved in our slumber.  Allene is half out of the covers, the skirt of her gown rucked up high over one thigh, one of her arms slung over my side, her hair splayed out chaotically across the bedspread.  My back is to her, our bodies only touching where her breasts brush my shoulder blades.</p><p>There is a knocking at the door — that must be what woke me — and the next moment it opens.</p><p>“Rise and shine, my la— Oh!”  Fidelity stops in her tracks, a tray of breakfast foods in her arms.  Her face colors immediately.  “Oh, Lady Fae, I wasn’t expecting you—”</p><p>I sit up immediately and go red all the way to my hairline.  “Fidelity, it’s—”</p><p>“We had a late night,” Allene says, yawning and sitting up beside me.  She stretches her arms out above her and I hear her back crack twice.  “By the time we got in, Fae was too drunk to make it back out again.”  She laughs loudly and then winces.  “Ugh, speaking of drunk...”</p><p>Fidelity hurries to the bedside and quickly hands Allene a glass of water.  She accepts it readily and drinks deeply of it.</p><p>“Sorry,” Fidelity says, “If I’d known you were here, I would have brought another—”</p><p>“It’s fine,” I say, already sliding off the side of the bed.  “I should go, anyway.  Uhm.  Father will be... will be worried.  I didn’t tell him I was going out.”  The words feel unnatural on my tongue.</p><p>Fidelity nods and watches as I slip away.  I find Clemence seated primly on a settee in the sitting room.  She eyes me beadily as I cross.</p><p>“Did you have a pleasant night, Lady Fae?” she asks me coolly.</p><p>“Uhm.  Something like that, yeah,” I reply.</p><p>I leave before she can make me anymore uncomfortable than I already am.</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Desperation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>another CW for self harm! forgot to add this note when i uploaded so i am adding it now</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</p><p> </p><p>Caederyn</p><p> </p><p>The post-tournament fête is a jubilant (and overwhelming) occasion.  Allene dazzles and gleams in the way I’ve come to expect from her: she is starlight and laughter, a beacon of joy.  She is an absolute headache.</p><p>The next day, we have our first real argument.</p><p>It’s mid-morning, perhaps around nine, when I stop before Allene’s door.  There is a heaviness within me, an uncertainty and irritation.  I’ve been trying all morning to think how best to broach the topic at hand, how to approach it.  There’s weariness too — it was a late night and unlike most others, I cannot allow myself to claim the boon of a late morning.</p><p>I go to knock, but before my knuckles can connect, the door swings open, nearly hitting me in the forehead.  I startle back as I’m met face to face with Feon — or, rather, Lady Fae.  His — her? their? — buttercup gown is a rumpled mess and his long hair is a snarl of knots, flat in some places and full in others.  There are two different colors of lip paint smeared on his left cheek and there is a wild look in his eyes.  At the sight of me, he goes scarlet from his ears down to his neck.</p><p>“Cae—” he begins, but I cut him off.</p><p>“Lady Fae,” I say courteously.  “It is lovely to see you this morning.  I trust the princess is in?”</p><p>He stares up at me, slack-jawed as a fish, and blinks.  I raise my eyebrows pointedly.  “Oh, yeah — yes, Your Grace,” he replies, falling into a clumsy curtsy.  “I’ll — uhm — I’ll just be going then!  Good morning!”  </p><p>I turn to watch as he makes a hasty retreat down the corridor, his movement closer to a scamper than a walk.  The nearby servants do their best to appear as if they are blithely incurious about the whole situation.</p><p>With a sigh, I reopen the door and enter Allene’s sitting room, where I am greeted by Lady Clemence.  She rises swiftly from her seat and gives a neat curtsy.</p><p>“Good morning, Your Grace,” she says, as poised as ever.  “Am I mistaken, or did you meet with Lady Fae as she made her egress?”  She smooths her skirts over and resumes her seat on the settee.</p><p>“No, that is correct,” I reply.  “Does she often sleep over?”</p><p>“Often?”  She says the word slowly, as if tasting it upon her tongue.  “Often, no.  Perhaps once or twice.  From my knowledge, I do not believe Lady Fae has taken residence in the palace and there are times when our gatherings run later than anticipated.”  Lady Clemence regards me steadily from over the rim of her teacup, her face perfectly composed and utterly unreadable.</p><p>I’m tempted to laugh.  I don’t.  “Right.  Well.”  I shift uneasily in place and glance around.  We are alone together in the sitting room.</p><p>“The princess is taking breakfast in her bedchamber,” Lady Clemence says, as if reading my mind.  “Would you like me to alert her to your presence?”</p><p>“No,” I reply hastily.  “Let her eat.  I’ll wait.”  Truth be told, I’m glad for the delay.  All morning, I’ve been caught in the endless loop of my internal monologue, turning my words over and over ‘til they split and fray.</p><p>Lady Clemence nods and gestures to the settee opposite her.  “Will you have tea, my lord?” she asks as I sit.</p><p>“Yes, please.”</p><p>She pours for me: a perfect, steady, steaming stream.  The sound of it is loud against the silence.  I thank her and sit back, tea in hand, and wait.  It is horrendously awkward.  Thankfully, it is not long before I hear the click of a door sliding open and turn to find Lady Fidelity exiting Allene’s bedchamber.  I rise quickly and she makes a hasty curtsy.</p><p>“Good morning, Prince Caederyn,” she says a little breathlessly.</p><p>“Good morning, Lady Fidelity,” I reply.  I glance behind her, through  the open door, but can’t make out much of anything.  “Is she—”</p><p>“Caederyn?” Allene calls out from beyond the door.  “Is that you?”  Her voice is rougher than usual, cracking like crisp autumn leaves under foot.</p><p>“Yes,” I return, and stand.</p><p>“I’ll be out in a moment!”</p><p>Lady Fidelity smiles at me awkwardly, her body still caught between rooms, the door propped open against her shoulder.</p><p>“I was — err — I was hoping to speak to you in private, Allene,” I reply, avoiding Lady Fidelity’s eye.  “If that’s alright.”</p><p>I hear a rustling of fabric and the next moment, Allene’s head pops out from behind Lady Fidelity, her chin propped nonchalantly upon her friend’s shoulder.</p><p>“Oh,” Allene says.  </p><p>Lady Fidelity moves aside and together they step into the room.  Allene is wrapped up loosely in a silken robe.  I can see lacy hints of her undergarments poking out from underneath it.  She wears the previous night’s revelry with an unpretentious grace, her mussed hair and smudged makeup failing to make her any less beautiful to my eyes.  </p><p>“Yes, alright,” she says, and tosses her thick black hair over one shoulder.  She makes a shooing gesture towards her ladies.  “Lore knows you’ve both wasted too much of your day upon me already.  Go do something fun!”</p><p>And they do go — easily and affably.  Sometimes I envy how effortless Allene makes such things seem.  And soon — very soon — we are left alone.  Allene gestures for me to sit and so I resume my seat and she takes the spot opposite me that was previously occupied by Lady Clemence.</p><p>“Tea?” I ask and she nods.  </p><p>I grip the teapot’s handle tightly and pour for her.  The stream lurches unsteadily, first too weak and then too strong, liquid sloshing over the rim and down the sides.  Drawing my handkerchief from my pocket, I hastily pat down the exterior of the cup before proffering it to Allene.  She accepts it wordlessly, our fingers brushing as it passes between us.  She takes a sip.  She waits.</p><p>“What is the matter, Caederyn?” she asks, her voice quiet.</p><p>I sit with my hands clasped before me, one thumb clamped down tight over the other so that I am not tempted to fidget.  “Allene—” I begin, but my voice comes out weird, too high and a bit froggy.  I clear my throat and try again.  “Allene, where did you go last night?”</p><p>“Some club in Feliza — I don’t remember the name.  Lysithea and Fae — Feon — and I went together.”</p><p>I purse my lips.  “And you didn’t tell me this.  Why?”</p><p>At this, Allene frowns, her brow pinching in at the middle.  “Well, it wasn’t as if we <em> planned </em> it.  There were — circumstances.”</p><p>“You could have told me before you left,” I say, careful to keep my voice even.</p><p>“There wasn’t really time—”</p><p>“You could have spoken with a guard or any number of servants and had them send word to me.”</p><p>She blinks.  “Oh,” she says.  “I suppose you’re right.  I hadn’t thought of that.  We were all a bit tipsy.”  She smiles at me.  “Next time?”</p><p>“Allene, I need you to take your safety <em> seriously.” </em>  The words are out too quickly for me to gentle them.  I’m breathing in sharp, rapid gusts, my hands clenched, my heels grinding into the floor.</p><p>“I wasn’t in any sort of danger, Caed!” Allene replies.  “If anything had come to pass, why, Lysithea and Feon are both fully capable in that regard.”</p><p>“Lady Ballard and Feon, who were, as you mentioned, inebriated at the time?”  Allene opens her mouth to say something, but I barrel on.  “Sun above, I know you have the utmost confidence in their capabilities, but there are people out there, clever people with means and motives, who wish us ill.  Watching for a moment when you or I are unattended and in the open.  </p><p>“Last night would have been a perfect opportunity.  Feon is — he’s strong and he’s devoted, but he relies on our Bond more than his own observations.  He can’t feel it when fear fills your heart the way he can mine and he won’t think to look for threats preemptively.”</p><p>“You trust your life well enough in his hands,” she replies ruefully.</p><p>“You’ll notice I have not made a habit of traveling without proper protection or notice.  Please think of it from my perspective: you leave me in a hurry in the midst of a party saying you’ll explain later and then — nothing.  For hours.  No word, no note, nothing.  I only find out you’ve left because the stablehand had enough forethought to quietly alert the guards at the gate.  What if some enemy had infiltrated their number or bribed them to report such goings to <em> them </em> and not to the crown?  What if they hadn’t organized a small following party—”</p><p>“They <em> followed </em> us?” Allene demands.</p><p>“Allene, it’s their duty to—”</p><p>“I am not a child, Caederyn.  I know what guards are meant to do.  The title <em> is </em> the job.  But I don’t appreciate being — being <em> coddled </em> like this. Don’t you find it suffocating?”</p><p>“It doesn’t <em> matter </em> how I find it,” I reply, my voice harsh.  “My position demands it.  And you — can you truly claim there was no moment last night when you were alone?  When you were vulnerable?”</p><p>“They were never far,” she says stubbornly, but after a moment she relents.  “I went to buy us a round of drinks at one point — but truly, if there had been any danger, they would have protected me.  Or I suppose your guards would have.”  She says the last few words as if they leave a poor taste in her mouth.</p><p>I hold up my hands helplessly.  “I don’t know why you are so determined to undermine your own safety, Allene, and frankly it is harrowing.”</p><p>“Is it worth it?” she asks coolly.  “To sacrifice your own autonomy for a little extra protection?”</p><p><em> “Yes,” </em> I answer immediately and emphatically.  “Yes, by the blood of my Bond, of course it is!”</p><p>“Caed, we were <em> fine. </em>  I trust Feon would have ripped to shreds any who wished to harm me — if he could so much as find a scrap of them after Lysithea finished her work.”</p><p>I shake my head.  “A crowded place like that — if Feon had shifted, he would have crushed many within.  There would be no helping it.  He’s not good in tight spaces,” I explain as gently as I’m able.  “Not that he wouldn’t prioritize our — your — safety if absolutely necessary, but we — in general, the injury of the common folk is discouraged.  And while Feon is not weak, he’s not entirely useful in his human form.  Not in the way you’d need him to be.”</p><p>Allene opens her mouth.  She frowns.  She sits back and crosses her arms over her chest.  She regards me, her dark eyes unnervingly keen.  “And Lysithea?” she asks, her voice gone uncomfortably quiet.  “Caed, I trust in her skills entirely.”</p><p>“She has proven herself skilled, yes,” I concede.</p><p>A silence settles over us then, a heavy layer of sullen sediment that clings to my skin and clogs my lungs like the worst humidity in the highest heat of summer.</p><p>“I trust her, Caed,” Allene says, her voice hardly more than a whisper and icy to the core.  “Not just her skills.  <em> Her.” </em>  Allene’s gaze is steady, defiant.</p><p>“I know,” I reply sadly.  “I wish I could say the same.”</p><p>We don’t reach an accord on the matter and in truth it grows into something strange and twisted and uncomfortable: a bramble in the side, a hole poorly patched.  I resent that even without being present, Lady Ballard manages to cause unrest between us.  It doesn’t change how we feel towards one another, but it makes us careful and awkward and uncertain.  </p><p>But in the end, I succeed in one measure at least, and manage to extract from Allene a promise that she will not make a similar excursion without properly notifying myself or the guard.  It is enough.  She even has the good grace to look mildly penitent about it — or perhaps she’s just hungover.  It’s hard to tell.</p><p>“I think I need a nap,” she says.  We rise and she takes my shoulders in hand and kisses me tiredly on the corner of my mouth.  “I’m not pleased, but I understand.”</p><p>“I think that sums the mood up adequately,” I reply.  I offer up a small smile and she rolls her eyes and slaps my cheek gently, but she can’t quite stifle the smile tugging at the her lips.</p><p>“Get out of here before I start liking you again,” she grumbles.  “I’m not ready yet.”</p><p>I don’t think she’s entirely jesting and so I make my retreat quickly.  But at the door, I pause and turn.  “Are we okay?” I ask her.</p><p>Allene looses a wide yawn before her gaze settles upon mine.  “Yes, Caederyn, I think we’re okay.”</p><p>I nod and then leave.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Within the next couple days, things grow easier between us.  More often than not, I find Allene in her tower room, bent over her book-laden desk as she makes calculations, sifts powders, and references her notes.  To my surprise, Feon seems to have taken an interest in her study of the dagger.  He perches on her desk and complains loudly as he assists her work, curiosity in his eyes and the sun in his hair.  His use must outweigh his attitude as Allene bears it all — for the most part — with good humor.  I hang back by the door while the two of them bicker peaceably.  </p><p>Captain Elske reports that with the increased patrolling, the banditry along the Ogrench border has finally subsided.  It’s a relief, true, but I’d feel better if we’d gleaned any information from the endeavor.  When at last Helion’s guard managed to capture one of the assailants, she revealed nothing, falling not to bribe nor bargain nor threat.  She spat in the face of the guards that questioned her and bit her tongue clean through before they could stop her.  She didn’t live to see the next sunrise.</p><p>It all leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  Bandits — normal bandits — are usually able to be reasoned with.  There are certainly cases when the fear of retribution from their own outweighs the fear of whatever punishment the state would mete upon them, but this — this is something else entirely.  I don’t like it.</p><p>The days continue to grow warmer as summer approaches.  Life falls into the steady rhythm of daily tedium.  Though the matter of the dagger and the banditry bother me still, there is comfort in normalcy.  </p><p>Four days after our confrontation, Allene’s tower workroom is outfitted with a covert cooling system similar to the one kept in the Titan Bowl’s royal box.  After its installment, I linger and listen as she explains her latest findings to me.  Feon is there too, seated listlessly atop one corner of her desk, his back resting against the wide drachenglas window behind him.  For no reason I can ascertain, he has once again chosen to wear his female guise.  It plucks at me uncomfortably.  I’ve grown more used to this visage with time, but it unsettles me still.  I have to force myself to look away.</p><p>“With the coordinated assistance of Mister Gooden and Arcanist Ebner, we managed to cobble together a sort of — well, it’s not a tracking spell, not precisely, but more of a, hmm, I suppose I would call it an affinity meter.”  She speaks distractedly, frowning as she rubs a strange, iridescent oil into the metal of the blade with a cloth of woven silver.</p><p>“What does that mean?” I ask.</p><p>Allene’s frown deepens.  “I’m not exactly certain, unfortunately.  The old magics can be somewhat... temperamental, for lack of a better term.  And what we’ve put together — it’s far from thoroughly tested.  There are many variables and too much uncertainty for my own comfort.  It may not work as intended.  But what we’ve done — what we <em> hope </em> we’ve done — is find a means that will first absorb some measure of the blade’s essence, replicate it, and then call to those things which bear a kinship with it.”  She douses the cloth with yet more oil and proceeds to polish the pommel — the eye of the strix.</p><p>“And so the oil — it does that?” I press.</p><p>“Oh, no!” she exclaims, and laughs.  “This is — it’s part of the preparation.  A safeguard, if you will.  We want to make the call, yes — but we don’t want anything to answer.  In fact, we’d prefer if they didn’t notice the grammary in the first place.”</p><p>“Right,” I say, and frown. </p><p>Finally, Allene glances back at me.  She smiles.  “It’s a long process, Caed.  Lots of moving parts with horrendously inconvenient specificities.  Special ingredients and processes and congruences with the heavens.  It will be another few days before the blade will be fully prepared.”  Her nose wrinkles with distaste.  “It is incredibly annoying.”</p><p>“And you have to renew this every time?  Every time the enchantment is triggered?”</p><p>Allene sighs.  “Yes — and also, it will wear away with time, even if it bears no results.  As I said — it’s a long process, not least of which because it must be repeated indefinitely.”</p><p>“But it worked, did it not?”</p><p>“I think so,” she replies, hesitation on her tongue.  “That the affinity led me to our — erm — strange visitor...”  </p><p>Here, Allene’s eyes shift to Feon, who, as of yet, has remained silent, his arms crossed over his chest, his head turned away to stare out the window.  I watch as color rises slowly in his cheeks.</p><p>“It can’t be a coincidence,” I say grimly.</p><p>“No,” she agrees, “I think not.  It’s possible, but...”  Here, she shrugs, and sets down her silver cloth.  The oil slicked dagger gleams a myriad of subtle colors in the sun’s light.</p><p>“I don’t know what it means,” Allene continues after a stretch of silence.  “All I <em> do </em> know is that it’s the first lead we’ve found in quite some time and I think we’d best discover a means for inviting our unexpected guest for another visit — though this time with a good deal more preparation and foresight.”  She shoots a furtive glance in Feon’s direction.  After a protracted silence, Feon turns his head and looks our way at last.</p><p>“If that’s what you want,” Feon replies.</p><p>Allene bites her lip.  “I don’t know if it’s what I <em> want, </em> but I think it’s what we need if we are ever to get to the bottom of this.”</p><p>Feon just shrugs and looks back out the window.</p><p>Eventually, Allene bids us to leave.  There are intricate pieces to the enchantment that require a good deal more focus than she is able to achieve in our combined presence.  We descend the spiraling stairway, our tongues couched by the memory of the last time we walked this route together — or at least, mine is.  </p><p>I’m not entirely certain what Feon is thinking.  This time, he walks before me, his back masked by a cascade of long, blonde curls — and they are blonde now, a deep honey blonde that darkens at the roots, rather than his usual gold.  It’s strange.  It suits him.</p><p>Near the stair’s foot, we cross paths with my father.  He pauses when he sees us — or rather, when he sees Feon — one foot proceeding the rest of him, half illuminated by the nearby window, the rest of his body cast into a soft, cool shadow.  </p><p>I don’t believe he’s yet met “Lady Fae.”  I think Feon must have forgotten, for he crosses the remaining space between them in a few swift strides, stepping into the tall rectangle of daylight, and throws his arms around my father’s waist and buries his golden face into his steady chest.  Father startles for a moment, his face in shadow, his eyes widening a fraction in that nigh inscrutable face, before his expression settles into something softer.  He rests a hand atop Feon’s pretty head and says something quiet to him.</p><p>Then his gaze shifts from the crown of Feon’s head, up, and to me.  Our eyes meet and I go still, utterly and completely.  My father’s face is hard, a cold iron wall, the bitter bite of a violent sandstorm.  A shudder runs through me and I startle back, stumbling over my own heels and nearly losing my footing.  </p><p>When I right myself, the expression is gone, his face wiped free of — whatever that was.  Light streams in, bright and golden, through the nearby window, creating a luminous halo about Feon’s head.  Perhaps it was some trick, a gleam from the window caught in my father’s eye as he stepped from shadow into light.</p><p>“You’re looking well,” the king remarks, and I can’t tell to which of us he is speaking.  Feon extricates his face from my father’s chest at last and gives the man a wide, dopey smile.  They separate not long after, though Feon hovers at my father’s shoulder.</p><p>“Thank you,” I reply, having to clear my throat to do so.  “As do you.  Is Mother—”  I begin, but the king shakes his head.</p><p>“She’s resting,” he says.</p><p>“Is she ill?” I ask, worry clogging my throat.</p><p>“No more than usual,” he answers, “Though she won’t make it for dinner.”  </p><p>We don’t take meals together daily, particularly not since Mother’s condition began to worsen, but we do try, and tonight’s dinner was meant to be a family occasion. Father must see the disappointment in my face, for in the next moment he steps forward, Feon toddling after him, and lays a firm hand upon my shoulder.</p><p>“You should visit her,” he says, and then glances down towards Feon.  “Both of you.  It would please her, I think.”</p><p>I nod and we part ways.  Feon loops his arm through mine and leans his head upon my shoulder and together we make for my parents’ chambers, that vague sense of unease clinging to my heel.</p><p>“He wasn’t surprised,” I muse.  Feon makes a vague inquiring sound in the back of his throat.  “I mean, he was, at first, but then — do you think Yuen did this?” I ask.</p><p>“Did what?” Feon asks.  He is so very warm and the pressure of his head against my shoulder — different though me may look, it feels so familiar.  It feels safe.</p><p>I gesture towards Feon’s body.  “You know.  Altered his human visage.  I’ve not thought on it much — after all, you never seemed particularly interested in it...”</p><p>Feon shrugs and gives a wide yawn.  He might as well be a kettle for all the insight he provides.</p><p>Soon, we are at the entrance to my parents’ chambers, and a member of the palace staff is ushering us in through the receiving room and further, through several more chambers, until we reach the bedroom door.  I knock gently and after a moment the door opens and a serving girl lets us through.  After, she finishes settling a number of items upon a small table at the side of the bed — a small gilt tureen of soup, a plate of flatbread sliced into easily manageable pieces, two teacups, silverware, a pitcher of water, and a teapot — before quietly exiting and leaving the three of us alone.</p><p>The room looks as it ever does: richly furnished and utterly immaculate.  Despite the steady encroaching of summer, a fire dances blithely in the hearth at the wall to my right.  I can smell it from here: the sweetly burning wood, maple I think, as well as some form of incense — cloves and something else.  Sunlight filters in through a gauzy curtain, turning the room warm and golden with the late day light.  It’s warm enough inside that I can already feel a thin sheen of sweat forming on the back of my neck.</p><p>A large bed consumes much of the far wall, and its rich red curtains are drawn back to reveal a bed piled high with all manner of luxurious pillows and blankets.  Mother sits upright in its center, looking small against the bed’s mass, her back resting gently upon a number of pillows that are propped up against the cushioned headboard.  She looks tired, the soft wrinkles of her face etched like lines plowed in soil.  Her hands lay neatly folded upon her blanket-swaddled lap.  They look so fragile: two thin, brittle starfish washed up on the sand, waiting to be pulverized by a careless foot.</p><p>“Hello, my loves,” she says, and smiles, “Come here and let me see you.”  </p><p>She holds her hands out towards us and we oblige, each approaching to give her a kiss of greeting upon the cheek before we settle into place.  Feon moves to sit by my mother’s side, shucking his slippers and drawing his feet up onto the duvet.  She smiles at him, her dark eyes gleaming, as I hover awkwardly beside the bed.</p><p>“Let me get a good look at you,” Mother says and takes Feon’s face in her too-pale hands.  He allows it, moving at her whim until she releases him, satisfied.  If she feels any measure of surprise seeing Feon in feminine guise, it does not show.  “I like your hair like this,” she continues.  “It suits you.”</p><p>Feon grins, his face lighting up like I haven’t seen in so very long, and he leans in towards my mother so that she may run her hands through the mass of his gleaming blonde curls.  Almost absently, she begins to braid it, her hands wavering unsteadily, though she never misses her mark.  Slowly, I settle at the foot of the bed, careful to disturb it as little as possible.</p><p>“Yuen had hair like this, you know,” she says, her face soft.  I startle.  It’s not often either of my parents mention the deceased dragon outside of necessity, and rarer still that they initiate such conversation.  I think it must be too painful.  But my mother is smiling sweetly, and her hands are so very careful, so gentle.  Feon turns slightly from her to make her work easier.  “He used to let me braid it sometimes.  And it was so smooth, like silk or water, like holding sunlight.” There’s something like nostalgia glinting in her wistful gaze, a quiet pleasure tempered by sadness.</p><p>“What was he like?” Feon asks, and even the softness of the moment can’t disguise the hunger in his voice.  It’s not the first time he’s asked that question, but I think he can’t help it.  We know so very little.  “I mean <em> really </em> like?” he amends.  “Not to the people, not as a hero, but to you.  To both of you.”</p><p>Mother pauses in her work and lays her hands upon Feon’s shoulders.  She stays like that for several moments, her expression thoughtful, before she finally speaks.  “He was so many things.  In some ways single-minded, and in others so very complicated.  Actually, he was a bit of an ass at first, at least to me.  Well, and the rest of your father’s prospective brides.”  At the look of surprise on my face, she laughs, and it’s a shallow, breathy thing.</p><p>“It was a bit of an ordeal — the whole marriage thing.  I was one of many eligible candidates who vied for <span class="s1">Rynnwald's</span> hand.  Your father wasn’t ready for it.  I don’t think any of us were.  Queen Waldresta had died not long before and though I never knew her, I came to know her ghost.  She was such a force that the lack of her could fill a place, even one as large as Pyrehart.”</p><p>Mother clears her throat weakly and I hastily pour her a cup of water and proffer it towards her.  She accepts it with a small thank you.  As she sips at it, Feon’s eyes meet mine.  Neither of us speaks.</p><p>“In time, I came to know Yuen’s kindness, and his love.  For <span class="s1">Rynnwald</span>, for this country, and even for me, though he was loathe to admit it.  He was clever and he was proud and he was careful.  So very, very careful...”  Mother lapses into silence and her eyes grow unfocused.  After a moment, she shakes her head.  She returns the glass to me half empty and her hands find the tail of Feon’s braid.  It’s come somewhat loose in the interim and so deftly she weaves it tighter.</p><p>“Caed, love, fetch me a ribbon from my vanity,” Mother says, and as she bids me, I go.  I find several filed away neatly in a shallow drawer and select one in a soft pink.  With it, she ties off the end of Feon’s braid.  He turns toward her, his eyes questioning, and she says, “Lovely,” and presses a kiss to his forehead.  Feon smiles.</p><p>Eventually, her gaze falls to me.  “I like Allene,” she says.  </p><p>It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Mother speak this much and I can hear the strain of it in her voice, the slow carving away of its strength.  She beckons me closer until I’m leaned past Feon, one knee resting on the bed, so that she may cup my face with her hands.  They’re cold.  Much too cold.  She smiles at me and it’s such a tender thing, her affection undiluted by the pain in her bones.</p><p>“I think you’ll be good for each other.  I think you need one other, all three of you.”  Mother smiles and moves one of her hands to Feon’s face.  Inadvertently, I find myself leaning in towards him to make it easier upon her, and I think Feon is doing the same.  Our shoulders brush.  “I have faith in you,” she says and I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or him or both of us.</p><p>I leave my mother’s chambers feeling warm through and through — not a shallow warmth, but that deep, soft glow that comes with laying by a fireside for many long hours.  Feon feels it too, I think, for there is something soft and yielding in the slope of his shoulders and in the curve of his mouth, which is oft so stubbornly set, but is now gentled.  </p><p>That happiness is only tempered by the knowledge that I likely won’t see Mother for some time.  Pleased though she was to see us, she did not look well.  When at last I got her settled for her meal, unfolding the legs of the lap tray and setting it for her with food and drink, her fingers trembled around the sloped handle of her spoon.  I offered to stay with her, but she politely refused and bid us to get on with our day.  So we left her to the steady hand of a serving girl, a worried pit forming, dark and gnarled, at the center of the peach of my contentment.</p><p>We walk together in silence, Feon and I, our footsteps near in sync, a quiet <em> tap tap tap </em> accompanied only by the gentle rustling of his skirts.  I find myself unable to look away from him: the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his neck and the braid my mother wrought in his hair with those same hands that once tamed Yuen’s pale tresses.</p><p>He seems so small to me now.  It’s a strange thought.  He’s always been short, but without his usual bombastic energy, he thoroughly looks it in a way he usually doesn’t.  He’s the sort of person that can easily fill a room — like Allene, I realize, though he with anger or vindictive glee and she with the sheer force of her magnetism.</p><p>Feon is slightly ahead of me now, his path leading us down a small, cramped corridor that is a shortcut to the other side of the palace.  He stops before me and I halt a moment after him and the sound dies with us.  I realize that we are well and truly alone: no servants, no courtiers, no cryptically nostalgic family members.  There are no windows here, just a mosaic ceiling peppered with little square tiles of drachenglas that offer a gentle illumination.</p><p>“Do you think he loved her?” Feon asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.</p><p>“Who?” I ask, though I think I know.</p><p>“Yuen.  Do you think he loved the queen?”</p><p>“She said as much,” I reply.  I can feel my palms growing moist.  “He loved them both.”</p><p>“You know what I’m asking,” Feon says, his voice tight.</p><p>“I don’t know.  I’m not sure what she meant.  Maybe.”</p><p>Feon is silent for a long moment.  His shoulders shift with the force of his breathing: long, deep pulls of air into his lungs that don’t seem to do anything for the mounting tension in his body.</p><p>“Do you like me better this way?” he asks.</p><p>“What?”  My pulse jumps.</p><p>Still facing away from me, he gestures down towards himself.  “This body.  This face.  This hair.”  I’m close enough to hear the sharp shudder of his breath, almost close enough to touch.</p><p>“Feon—”</p><p>“I thought you might,” he says quickly, like he’s got to force the words out before he loses the nerve to do it.  “I thought maybe... maybe if you saw me differently.  Maybe you’d like this version of me better.”</p><p>I go still.  Utterly and completely still.  I daren’t move, daren’t speak.  I feel as if my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, as if a single careless breath could shatter everything.  It feels pivotal, this moment: huge and strange and absolutely terrifying.  I’m so scared I’ll ruin it, too scared to act, too scared to think.  I panic.</p><p>“Fuck, Caed, just — just say <em> something,” </em> Feon gasps.  His shoulders are trembling.</p><p>Sadness, bitterness, helplessness.  I am caught up in a sinkhole of emotion.  It’s like the ground has collapsed beneath my feet and waiting below me are all the people I hold dear, pretty little targets unaware of the missile gravity will make of me: I will lose myself and take them with me in the process.</p><p>I realize, perhaps belatedly, that Feon is crying.</p><p>Something within me snaps: a branch bent too far, a fissure racing down the side of a cliff.  I step forward.  I reach for him.  I pull him to me.</p><p>His back hits my chest with more force than I intended, but it doesn’t matter, I don’t care.  He’s so small it’s a wonder I never noticed it before.  My arms circle him and it’s like holding a flame.  He shakes and shudders, hot tears splashing my bared forearms as he gasps for breath.</p><p>“It’s not <em> fair,” </em> Feon wails.  “It’s <em> not fair!” </em>  He hiccups violently, the sound an awful croak.  There’s nothing pretty about it, nothing tame.  He cries with the full force of an inferno, the sobs wracking his body like they want to consume him.  </p><p>“Why won’t you <em> love </em> me?” he demands.  “I love you so much, Caed!  So much!”</p><p>I bow forward and press my brow to the back of his head.  I feel as if he is shattering, slowly and inexorably, and I’m the only thing keeping him together; like once I let him go, he’ll fall to pieces on the floor like so much scattered glass.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a harsh rasp.  Tears sting my eyes.</p><p>Feon makes a wordless, anguished sound high in his throat and he turns.  Still in my arms, he turns towards me, and his face is red and streaked with tears.  He looks soft and hard all at once: sharp edges and tender insides, anger and pain and bleeding desperation.</p><p>His lips find mine.  I feel staggered by it, made weak and unsteady.  He kisses me with an urgent tenderness and his hands cup the sides of my neck and he pushes me back until my shoulders hit the wall.  There, he keeps me, and it’s such a strange kiss: soft and filled with yearning and a deep, despairing need.  It’s very wet — and salty from the tears.  His tears.  My tears.  His hands are trembling against my neck.</p><p>And I can feel my heart breaking.</p><p>I can’t answer him — not today and not ever, not with the way things are.  I have caused him so much pain.  I can feel it in his touch, in the way he has grown brittle and caustic.  I did this to him.  I have hurt him countless times and I will continue to do so, cutting him open over and over and over again until all that’s left of us is scar tissue, old and gnarled and ugly.</p><p>My arms are still around him, my hands clutching at the small of his back.  I’m trembling, I know, though whether it’s with tension or emotion, I’m uncertain.  I should let him go.</p><p>I can’t.</p><p>He pulls me to him, down to that rosy mouth, like my lips are absolution.  When did Feon learn to be tender?  I don’t deserve his love, not like this.  I am a bane to his heart, a poison he drinks time and again, a blade he falls upon willingly.  I am a special sort of misery he invites to his door.  I feel totally and completely overwhelmed: by his love, by my own self-loathing.</p><p>Feon gasps and our lips part.  He draws away.  I can’t open my eyes, can’t bear to see the pain I’ve wrought within him.  He pulls back, enough to put pressure on my grasp around him, and I let him go.  I feel the absence of him as a bitter chill.  I can hear his breathing, the rapid shuddering of his lungs.  For a moment he stays there.  I don’t know what he sees.</p><p>Then he’s gone.  I hear his footsteps, the soft <em> tap tap tap </em> of his slippers as he retreats.  I don’t dare to open my eyes until I hear him no longer.  Then I lean back into the wall, my head pressing into its harsh solidity.  I take a deep gulp of air, let it take me as I blink away tears.  I feel numb.  I feel weak.  </p><p>My legs give out beneath me and I slide, slowly, ‘til I’m sitting flush with the wall, my eyes open and unseeing, my legs splayed out before me.  </p><p>I don’t want to know how much of that Feon felt.  I hate that any time I hurt him, he feels it twofold.  He doesn’t deserve that.  He doesn’t deserve any of this.  He doesn’t deserve to be tethered to me.</p><p>He deserves better.</p><p>My fingers fumble with the pin in my pocket, but when it pierces the pad of my thumb, I don’t even feel it.  It’s not enough.  It’s nothing.</p><p>Hands shaking, I unsheathe my dagger.  The metal kisses my palm and a moment later I feel the saccharine swell of blood as it pools and drips down my skin.  Better.</p><p>I retrieve my handkerchief from a pocket.  I clean my blade, put it away, then press the cloth to my bleeding hand and tie it, one-handed and clumsy for it.  Eventually, I find the strength to stand.</p><p>I feel aimless, empty, a brittle leaf in the throes of a bitter autumn wind.  I can look at my feelings, examine them, and consider the conditions that lead to them.  But they are separate from me now, made somehow distant.  I look down at my left hand.  A red stain slowly spreads across my makeshift bandage.  As my feet carry me down the hallway and towards my chambers, I think, absently, that I should have it looked at later.</p><p>I don’t.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. A Fox in the Henhouse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey just a quick note before this chapter, if you are in america and are not super jazzed about the whole attempted coup thing please check out demandaction.app, they have form letters and resources to contact your reps and demand their resignation (if they supported the coup) or ask for them to call for the resignation of those who supported the attempted coup (if they didn't). they will tell you who did and didn't support it and will supply you with the appropriate text.</p><p>and now on to the chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Roughly two weeks have passed since the grammary I laid upon the dagger lead me to Solene’s fountain and Feon, wide-eyed and utterly drenched at her feet.He’s been rather cagey about the whole thing — even after we gained the privacy of my tower workroom he was reluctant to relinquish further information.Still, I managed to pry several choice morsels from his recalcitrant mouth: first, that our strange visitor was one he’d met before, though he was loathe to tell me where; second, that he had, however unintentionally, invited her here; and third, that he thought she might yet visit again.I suspect he is right and I sorely hope that next time I will be prepared for her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But the fact of the matter is that the act of forging the affinity meter is a difficult and lengthy one.I flubbed the process the second go round — or rather, I put far too much trust in the quality of my ingredients.So consumed was I with the difficult task at hand that I failed to realize that my exacting specifications may not have been met by the magically incompetent Nadarans charged with procuring my components.Some spells are not so choosy, but these magics — they are old and fickle and held together only tenuously and every ingredient must be chosen with great care. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The strix is a creature of darkness and night and it is this creature whose eye serves as the dagger’s crux.To swath it with ingredients harvested by the sun’s light would be an exercise in futility.Much to my displeasure, I only discovered this with a week’s worth of toil already undertaken.Time, wasted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, I wait: first for the arrival of my new components (this time allocated from a Voswainian delivery service) and then for the next half-moon and then — well, it is an irritatingly complicated network of spells.There is much waiting involved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so, despite those desperately busy moments in which I must perform rigorously the rituals concocted by Arcanist Ebner, Mister Gooden and myself, I find myself with long swathes of idle time in between.I spend it liberally, pouring my heart out into anything and everything within reach.I know that Caed has taken notice of this when he gives me that look: the gentle twist of his mouth into a slight, one-sided smile, his chin raised just so, one brow arched.When he asks if I’d like to sit in on the next day’s court proceedings, I agree readily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When first I saw it, I thought the throne room a beautiful place: a glittering, golden jewel sitting idle and pretty, waiting patiently to be used.It echoed then, picking up the scant sounds of footsteps and joyously doubling and trebling them to break the silence.Now it is abuzz with sound: the chattering of many voices unified in their excitement.The room is packed full of people, the long benches all crammed tight, the standing room crowded with a mass of warm bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And all of them are talking, some with voices raised, others doing so furtively behind cupped hands.There is a restlessness to it, an agitation, like a room full of trapped bees, excitement and anxiety so deeply mingled they are nigh indistinguishable from one another.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I take my seat beside Caederyn, I lean forward and whisper, “What’s going on?What is all this about?”As consumed as I have been with the dagger and its ensorcelling, I haven’t been paying all that much attention to matters of the high court.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He glances back at me, his face taut, brows furrowed.“I — I’m not exactly certain, not yet, only that—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance up as Caederyn halts mid-sentence, his eyes locked upon the progression of a particular head of gilt hair.Feon does not greet us, does not so much as cast his gaze back upon us, as he passes by to take his seat at the queen’s right.She smiles at him when he reaches her and he pauses long enough to allow her to kiss him warmly on each cheek.She looks better today.There is a faint flush to her cheeks and a glimmer in her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed,” I whisper, leaning towards him to be heard over the murmur of the crowd, “Is everything alright?Are you — is something the matter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He jolts in place — such a small movement, a sudden stiffening of his entire body, but we are near enough to one another that I catch it regardless.After an awkward pause, he turns, and his eyes wide and dark as they meet mine.“Yes — I mean no — I mean — I’m fine,” he says, tight-lipped and tense.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reach forward and take his hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze.He ducks his head down, evading my gaze.Nevertheless, after a moment he returns the gesture.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, the remaining members of the high court take their seats, and with each new chair filled, the din of rumor rises.The seats are arranged in two converging arcs nestled one before the other, the first upon the dais and the second below, and at their center is the empty throne.Caederyn and the Queen Lienna sit at either side of it, the prince at the left and the queen at the right.I have been afforded the seat at Caederyn’s other side, for though I do not currently have a place in the king’s council, I soon will.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I know it the moment the king emerges to take his place upon the throne, for there is a sudden lull, like a cumulative intake of breath shared by all in the room, a ripple of blooming quiet that expands rapidly across the chamber.A moment later, chatter resumes, the noise bursting forth, tumultuous water breaking through a crumbling dam.King Rynnwald raises a hand and the chamber falls silent again — and this time it sticks, the sudden quiet so stark it seems unreal to my ears.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">King Rynnwald nods to a young man at the dais’ foot, who then unrolls a scroll and takes a deep breath and reads aloud in a sweet and clear voice, calling the proceedings to a head.It’s nothing particularly riveting — a list of names and titles and formalities, the high council’s oath to pursue just and well-reasoned resolutions regardless of convenience and personal bias, and the king’s oath to heed his council’s guidance. I fidget in place, rubbing the rich red velvet of my chair’s arm first the wrong way and then the right.I drop my gaze from the herald and instead turn to study the crowd: and there, in the first row of seats, right at the center, sit the Ballards, looking incongruously smug.They seem to take up more space than necessary and I notice that they alone have been afforded a wide berth, their neighbors leaning away to put as much distance between them as possible.Halwynn in particular seems comfortable in their insouciance: aware that they are seen as a fox in the henhouse and more than happy to play that role.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“...Let us begin the proceedings with the petition brought forth by the state of Laruze, represented today by the ambassador Halwynn Ballard.Sun’s grace upon us, may it illuminate the path towards good reason and truth for us all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn rises from their seat and approaches the dais.Gossip swells behind them, like a swarm of angry wasps roused violently from their hive.King Rynnwald raises his hand again and the sound dies instantly.Halwynn stands at ease before the dais, their posture upright but relaxed, their hands clasped behind their back, their face serene save for the old, angry burns marring their right half.The silence is taut as a garroting wire.Halwynn bows low before the throne. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Speak,” says the king, lowering his hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your Majesty, I am here at the behest of my people and our council.It is an honor to be granted an audience at long last.”Halwynn’s voice is low and sweet and smooth like syrup.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king’s eyes are hard.“Perhaps it would have been granted sooner had you seen fit to disclose the contents of your petition beforehand.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn merely smiles their inscrutable smile and gives an elegant shrug.“I am but a tool of Parliament, no more than their hands and voice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence stretches long and uneasy between them, broken only by the scratching of the stenographer’s quill.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then speak as they have willed,” the king says at last.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord Sovereign, I will say it plain: it is the will of my parliament to commence trade with Domina and to petition you and your council for the right to do so.”Domina: the western island state nestled in the nook of Nadara’s crescent, the land of Feon’s blood, of dragons.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A ripple passes through the crowd: an intake of breath, a low, anxious murmur.Beside me, Caederyn stills.I glance first to him and then to the king.If King Rynnwald is surprised, he does not show it, his face a mask of cold iron.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We do not presume to hold claim over the will of Domina,” the king answers, his words measured.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you would allow a Larish envoy to pass peaceably through your lands to parlay with the Daenians, then?” Halwynn says, a trace of humor in their words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence reigns, heavy with words unspoken.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The western shore of Domina is nigh unscalable, treacherous in even its kindest parts, necessitating travel through Nadaran territory.But I am certain you are well aware of this.”Halwynn smiles blithely.“Of course, we would not ask such a boon without offering ample remuneration.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king does not so much as bat an eye.“And what has your council given you leave to offer?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that ever-present panther’s smile, Halwynn reaches inside their finely-spun jacket of white and silver and withdraws from it a small scroll.Their movements are slow and purposeful, a practiced display that hones the cumulative focus of the room to a needlepoint.The silence of the chamber is so consuming that the rasp of unrolling parchment carries, clear as the calling of a songbird.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In their smooth, resonant voice, they read aloud a list: gold and gems and treasure of all sorts and in munificent abundance.Jewelry, finely made, goblets, aged spirits, and a bounty of riverspun silk.This, in particular, merits reaction: excitement and envy and yearning.Riverspun silk is a Larish speciality.It is cloth finer than any other, cloth so smooth it runs like water over the skin.It is heavenly to wear in the summer months and it is beautiful too: colors that range from vibrant to subtle, and all of them kissed by shifting waves of multitudinous rainbow hues, like opal spun into thread.And I’ve seen none of it since arriving in Nadara — at least, not on any of the Nadarans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glance around me and see it clear: the faces of the council members are lit with avarice, ignited by temptation.There is wariness, too, a deep mistrust, and I catch a glimmer of anger in several faces.The king alone remains untouched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A generous offer to be certain,” King Rynnwald says stolidly, “But you have come seeking more than simple trade.There is something you want from the dragons of Domina and it is not something you can obtain elsewhere.I do not think this an equivalent exchange.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If this answer galls Halwynn, they do not show it, and judging by the faint quirk of the corner of their mouth, I suspect they may have anticipated it.They reroll the scroll and slide it deftly into an inner pocket of their jacket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In addition,” Halwynn says, “We are prepared to offer something less mundane.”They reach into another pocket and draw out a small, crystalline vial of frosted glass.There is something small and dark moving inside it, but I’m not close enough to make out what it is.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is a frost ant,” Halwynn continues, holding the vial aloft.It twinkles in the light of the drachenglas ceiling and I realize that it must be the inside — rather than the outside — that is frosted.“An elemental insect, similar to your fire ants, but opposite in nature.They burrow in ice rather than earth and freeze their surroundings to make the area hospitable to their needs.A properly kept colony can sustain itself and its nest at freezing temperatures almost indefinitely even in the warmest of climes.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All around, I can see people straining to get a better look at the small vial.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is very interesting, Ambassador, but what is the point of all this?” asks a man several seats down from me.He’s dressed all in brown, his graying hair bound back neatly, his skin faintly browned as if he’s been very gently toasted all over.He looks vaguely familiar and I think I’ve seen him around court before, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, Lord Desai, as Master of the Pantry, this will be of particular interest to you.You see, when utilized properly, a colony of only moderate size can easily chill a large ice house without the need to harvest new ice every year.”Halwynn pauses a moment to enjoy the ensuing reaction before continuing.“As part of this trade, Parliament has given me leave to offer everything you need to begin your first colony, including the services of a skilled formiculturist to ensure the colony’s survival and to train in the insects’ permanent keeper.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A murmur of interest ripples through the crowd.Members of the king’s council lean forward to get a better view, and, looking imminently smug, Halwynn proffers the vial to Lord Desai and allows it to be passed around.When the vial reaches me, I find it cold to the touch — immensely so, cold enough that I relinquish it quickly.I pass it to Caederyn and then he to the king, who takes measure of the vial and its contents with a small frown creasing his brow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do see potential in this,” King Rynnwald says slowly.And then, to my surprise, he turns to me.“Princess Allene, have you experience with these creatures?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh — yes, to an extent,” I reply, trying to not let my surprise show through.“We do make use of them, although less for the keeping of ice houses, as ice is not particularly difficult to come by in Voswain and even when left alone will often not melt until near spring’s end.But they are magically potent creatures and their crushed remains have many uses, including the forging of ice boxes small and efficient enough to be kept indoors.We call them refrigerants.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Conversation follows — Lord Desai argues staunchly in favor of accepting this offer and these ants, while others remain more reserved.The king sits quietly, listening, looking pensive and brooding in a deeply compelling sort of way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean sideways towards Caederyn and whisper, “Well?What do you think?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The prince frowns and it’s an expression that so nearly mirrors his father’s that I have to stifle a laugh.His dark gaze flickers towards me and then away again.“I don’t know,” he replies quietly.“I think it’s — I think there is great potential in these, what did you call them?Re-fridge-er-ants?”I nod. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think it would take time,” he continues, “But if we could cultivate them, breed multiple colonies, it could promise great things for our people.We don’t have need of them at the palace — it would be convenient, yes, but we have the means to keep our ice houses well-stocked.But if we could somehow make this accessible — it could change so many lives.”I watch him, watch his face, the way his brow furrows and his fingers drum restlessly on the arm of his chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And yet?” I prompt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn sighs.“And yet I do not know if it is worth the cost.Whatever they want with the Daenians — forgive me, but I do not trust it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The council seems similarly conflicted, for after a full hour of impassioned debate, no consensus is reached.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn takes it all in with unperturbed grace.If anything, they seem amused.“Your majesty, have you come to a decision?” they ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king regards Halwynn evenly.“I am not yet prepared to give you an answer.We will suspend the proceedings and reconvene after further deliberation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something in Halwynn’s smile turns sharp.“Your Majesty, if I may speak candidly...”The king nods his assent.“There is one final boon I may add to sweeten the pot.”They pause, their dark eyes fixed solely upon King Rynnwald.“An elixir capable of curing the effects of any poison or venom, no matter how rare or how potent.A single dose for a single individual.I would, of course, be happy to have its potency verified by an unbiased third party.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">King Rynnwald is silent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At his right, Lady Vallance, a woman with high cheekbones and nut-brown skin, speaks up, “I do not doubt the efficacy or value of such a thing, but what poison is so wicked it could not be treated by the use of dragon’s blood?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her confusion is echoed by many other faces.It seems no small trinket, indeed, but this offering feels out of step with the previous ones.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn does not look at her.They have eyes only for the king.“I can think of at least one such poison.”They smile.“Your Majesty, I believe you are correct.I think it best we suspend the proceedings until such a time when you have come to a decision.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn bows deeply.The king raises a hand distractedly and waves it, dismissing the council.Conversation erupts.Though the king remains silent, noise blooms around him.Lord Desai approaches King Rynnwald but he shakes his head and the Master of Pantry retreats.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lean towards Caederyn again, and this time I must raise my voice to be heard over the tumult.“What was all <em>that?”</em> I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn looks back at me, seemingly just as confused as I am.“I haven’t the slightest idea.”He shakes his head and stands.“Come,” he says, “It is time for the breaking of the bread.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As it turns out, there is a custom unique to Nadaran court which I was previously unaware of.When the session breaks for lunch, all the involved parties — the king, queen, the council, myself, and the petitioners (in this case, Halwynn and, by extension, Lysithea) are bid to join together for a meal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We sit at a large, round table in an adjoining room, cleansing our hands in small bowls of water and then with warm, damp cloths.The whole thing is truly and deeply awkward.It is not that the room is silent — in fact, there is much conversation, but all of it is stilted and impersonal.I think the council is eager to discuss the offer at hand, but is reluctant to do so further while still in the presence of the Ballards.A servant sets a large loaf of warm, crusty bread before the king, so fresh I can smell it from across the table, and he breaks it cleanly in half.The servant bows and takes the halves away to be cut and served with generous portions of fermented butter and raw honey.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The king hosts the luncheon with all the humor of an iron ingot.I sit very nearly opposite him, sandwiched between Caederyn and Lysithea, with Feon on Caed’s left.Halwynn, seated directly opposite the king, sits at Lysithea’s other side.I think things could have been a good deal less awkward were it not for the strangeness between Caederyn and Feon.It’s not that they behave poorly towards one another — in fact, they are nothing if not perfectly civil, and it is this that is so unsettling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They sit quietly side by side, eating and drinking and not so much as looking at one another.They aren’t ignoring each other, not precisely — I watch as Feon passes Caederyn a bowl of lemon wedges, which then he passes to me — but they don’t speak and they don’t touch and they don’t meet each other’s eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea plants her elbow on the table and leans forward to stare at them, one perfectly sculpted brow rising towards her hairline.“What in Goddess’ name is going on here?” she asks, gesturing between the two of them with a forkful of greens, a single grape tomato speared on its end. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon doesn’t even look up at her, but I can tell he’s heard by the way his shoulders stiffen.Lysithea eats her fork-full, relishing the scraping sound made as she drags the tines over her teeth.Caederyn glances towards her, resignation and resentment battling for primacy in his expression.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There is nothing ‘going on here,’ Lady Ballard,” Caederyn replies tiredly.I can almost hear the air quotes in his speech — something that surprises me, as I hadn’t thought him capable of that level of cheek.“We’re having lunch.I thought you might have noticed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ooooo,” Lysithea replies, waggling her fork before herself, “Well, aren’t we feeling feisty today?”She grins and swallows another bite of salad.She sounds almost giddy.“What was it, some sort of lovers’ quarrel?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caederyn and I are on very good terms, thank you,” I reply, placing my hand atop one of the prince’s.I smile beatifically back at Lysithea and she rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not <em>you</em> two,” Lysithea says, spearing another tiny tomato for emphasis.<em>“Them.”</em>She waves her fork pointedly between Caed and Feon and the tomato goes flying off the tines.It hits Feon square in the forehead, leaving a shiny splotch of vinaigrette between his brows, before dropping into his napkinned lap.“Oops,” she says.“Sorry.”Feon glares at her, full force, picks up the tomato and throws it back at her.She catches it deftly and pops it into her mouth.“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon simmers in his ire.Beside him, Caederyn hovers, torn, before finally raising his own napkin to dab at his companion’s forehead — but before he can manage it, Feon’s hand shoots out and catches his wrist.“Don’t,” he says, voice low, his chest expanding rapidly with short, sharp breaths. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They remain locked there, staring at each other, for several heartbeats, until Lysithea snickers and the real world comes flooding back in.Feon releases Caederyn’s wrist and the prince wrenches his arm back as if burned.Feon scowls and looks away.A moment later, he wipes away the vinaigrette with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After that, the whole thing feels rather more like a funeral procession than a luncheon.Feon and Caederyn sit tensely together, hyper aware of one another and miserable because of it.I try to distract them with conversation, but it never takes wing.I shoot a frown in Lysithea’s direction and she just looks back at me and shrugs before neatly demolishing a fillet of fish.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The meal’s conclusion comes as a relief — and I think I am not alone in that feeling.We rise, exchanging awkward pleasantries and farewells.The king promises to call for the council to reconvene in private early the next day.Lord Desai pulls Halwynn into conversation, no doubt to ask about the expanded uses of the frost ants where the preservation of food is concerned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon and Caed separate immediately and, to my surprise, I see Lysithea joining Feon.They chat quietly as Caederyn is waylaid by another member of the council and I find myself untethered and indecisive.I watch as the king helps the queen to her feet.He bends low to whisper something into her ear and she nods.She looks distinctly drained, her face lined with exhaustion though her cheeks are still rosy and warm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hear a loud snarling and turn, panic rising in my heart, to find Feon hunched forward, his lips curled back to bare his teeth like a dog.Those teeth have grown long and pointed and gold scales glint across his nose and cheeks.Lysithea stands before him, her posture upright and stiff, her arms crossed over her chest.She’d almost look calm — aloof, unimpressed — if it weren’t for the shock widening her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut <em>up!”</em> Feon shouts, his voice gone guttural and not wholly human.“Flame and ruin, woman, do you never shut up?!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And before anyone can move, before I can so much as draw breath, Feon has his hands on her, pressing at her shoulders, pushing her until she’s pinned against the wall.Silver flashes and quicker than I can blink, Lysithea has a rapier drawn, its wicked length glinting between them, its point pressing into the soft flesh beneath his chin.They stare at one another, their faces close, eyes wide and bodies tense.A bead of blood trickles down the edge of her blade.The room is silent with unspent breath.The promise of violence sings in the air.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Enough.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A single word, sharp with fury.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without a mind for his guards, King Rynnwald strides forward and forcibly separates the two of them before he slaps Feon full on across the face.Feon staggers back, stunned, relinquishing Lysithea from his grasp, his soft mouth going slack, his wide, golden eyes blinking with exaggerated shock.The room goes completely and utterly still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">King Rynnwald lowers his hand and affixes Feon with his fearsome gaze.“I will not have our traditions disrespected thusly.You will make recompense for the insult she has suffered at your hand.”Feon just stares back at the king, his golden eyes void of anything save that pitiful astonishment.King Rynnwald sighs and turns to rejoin his wife.Every eye in the room follows him.Almost as an afterthought, he waves his hand and speaks again.“You are all dismissed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is not a one among us who can leave soon enough — all save for Feon.He stands there, frozen, his fists clenched at his sides, his head bent, his eyes wide and unseeing as he stares down at the floor.People pass him by, affording him a wide berth as they leave, the murmur of gossip rising as they pass through the door and into the next chamber.Lysithea turns up her nose at him and strides away with crisp, indignant poise.Halwynn follows in her footsteps, their pace measured, their expression more amused than angry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Caed — oh Caed, I can tell, is at odds with himself.He lingers, torn, until his mother places her hand on his shoulder and draws him to her side.He leaves, then, joining his parents in their egress, leaving Feon alone to his pain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Soon, only Feon and I are left — Feon and I and the servants, all of them hastening to clear the table, eager to be free of this place and its tension.I bend forward to survey Feon, the stubborn jut of his jaw, the rising color in his cheek, and the faint glistening of tears in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?” I ask softly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He opens his mouth but nothing more than a crude sort of gurgling sound comes out.He shrugs.He turns his head to evade my gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take him by the shoulder and steer him gently out of the dining chamber, out of the throne room, and up into my tower.He doesn’t resist, doesn’t so much as speak.A bruise blooms high on his cheek.He doesn’t touch it, doesn’t heal it with his blood.I press a book of fiction into his lap and he stares at it, unseeing.I take a momentary leave to make use of the facilities and when I return, my tower room is empty, his chair occupied only by that single book.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. The Festival</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whew! this chapter's a bit of a doozy. it's both long and pretty chaotic and it required some extra TLC while writing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Allene</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The verdict does not come quickly.  Early the next morning, the king and his council hold a private meeting to which I am not invited.  It goes on — and on and on and on.  I don’t see Caederyn again until late that night when he stops by my workroom to wish me goodnight.  He looks exhausted — his face gone wan and sallow, his eyes glassy, his dark hair hanging in limp strands across his forehead, as if he’s run his hand through it too many times.  I manage to bite back my questions, but only just, and only because he looks so thoroughly wrung out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, the high council reconvenes and a decision is announced: as generous as the offer is, sadly the king must decline this trade.  His words are followed by the riotous whispering of a people conflicted.  The throne room is filled to bursting, somehow even more tightly stuffed than it was previously, and though the people keep their voices hushed, the sheer number of them makes the sound large: like the rushing of a waterfall or a den of hissing snakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halwynn Ballard does not seem surprised.  They maintain their composure, their face the picture of gracious disappointment.  I find myself quietly surprised.  Judging by the boons on offer and the trade that was requested, I had thought to see some measure of displeasure at the rejection, but Halwynn does naught more than smile and accept these words, promising to relay them to their council.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a pity,” Halwynn says, their resonant voice cutting through the whispers.  “My people had high hopes for this negotiation.  Our lands hold so much history between them, history that has yet to feel the gentling of time’s touch.  Perhaps it is yet too soon.”  The corner of their smile twitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something behind Halwynn catches my eye — a glint of silver as Lysithea shifts in her seat, her hair gleaming in the light of the drachenglas mosaic ceiling.  Her face is sharp, her lips pulled into a thin line, her eyes wide and bright as she watches Halwynn.  A moment later, her eyes meet mine, and she stills, her face going blank.  Then she smiles, though the expression doesn’t sit easily on her face.  Still, I return the smile, and something in her posture eases ever so slightly.  Then her eyes leave mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch Caederyn after court is dismissed and pull him aside into an empty room.  Hand curled around his forearm, I ask, “What happened yesterday?  Why were they refused?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn sighs and cards a hand through his hair.  “It’s — complicated.  The Daenians don’t really have currency — I mean, they do, they hoard coin just as readily as they do anything else — but they don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>use</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, not really, and besides, if the Larish were after riches, they could find that elsewhere.  The Daenians trade in favors.”  His voice is kept hushed, the words all tumbling over each other like rocks down a mountainside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown.  “Is that what your family did?” I ask.  “Solene, I mean.  She made a trade with them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn shrugs, but his face has gone tight and pale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so your father is afraid—”  At the look on his face, I hastily change my wording.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Concerned.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Your father is concerned at what sort of bargain they might make.”  Caederyn nods.  “Do you think — do you think the Larish could be looking to make their own Bond?  Like you and Feon and the rest of your line?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.  Maybe.  That was one possibility broached — they’ve been sorely lacking a god these past twenty-some years.  Mayhap they’re in search of a new one, or at least something similar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel the promise of a headache beginning at the base of my skull.  I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose just between my eyes and inhale deeply.  “Okay,” I say, exhaling one long breath.  “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caed merely watches me, his brow knit, his bottom lip caught under his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I put my hand down.  “So, your father thinks that they — that the Daenians —would agree to that — to a new Bond?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn shrugs.  “I think he is — concerned.  Their offer was — generous.  And Father thinks that if they would offer us so much, that they must have already allocated sufficient assets for bargaining with the Daenians.  He doesn’t like to see them so ready to make such a bargain and worries at the magnitude of their ambition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a tempting offer, of course, not only due to the boons presented, but also because there was no contingence on the Daenians’ answer.  For all we know, we could have come away with a small fortune while the Larish got next to nothing for their troubles.  This was a point argued for quite some time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet,” I say, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet,” he agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath and shake my head.  “This is all so strange,” I muse.  “Why would the Larish want </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bond in particular?  Couldn’t they — I don’t know — court the favor of some Ogrench creature?  There seem to be many to choose from.  Are other creatures not capable of forming Bonds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I knew the answer to that, it would have made this decision a great deal less contentious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.  Hesitate.  My gaze flicks over his face — drawn, anxious, over-worked.  And then I ask something that’s been prickling at my tongue for the better part of this conversation.  “Caed,” I begin, careful to keep my voice soft, “What bargain did Solene make?  What did your family trade for their Bond?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gaze catches mine for a brief moment before quickly dropping it.  “I don’t know,” he answers quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not until we part that I wonder at the truth of his words.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>For days after, the only word on anyone’s tongue is discussion of the offered trade and the king’s refusal.  Some think him right to do so — they speak of bloodshed and land stolen, of families torn apart and dragons brought low.  Others disagree — their voices are quieter, but no less passionate as they extol the potential for innovation and peace and denounce the king’s choice as one made out of pride and fear.  It has been twenty-five years since the Battle of Ash, is it not time to usher in a new era of cooperation and prosperity?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is another result of the negotiations as well: what modicum of indifference the Ballards had managed to court is snuffed out in an instant.  It’s not as if they were ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>— not really — but it had seemed to me that the Nadarans had grown less wary of them (and of Lysithea in particular).  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not so anymore: wherever the Ballards go, eyes and whispers follow.  Once I saw a man — one of those most adamantly in favor of the king’s decision — step forward and spit at Halwynn’s feet.  Halwynn had merely given the man an amused smile before continuing on their way.  It seems however they are relaying news of the king’s verdict, they are not doing so in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite this, the vast majority of Nadarans remain undecided, cautious and curious and uncertain.  When I speak of it with Clemence and Fidelity, neither of them have much to add.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It all seems so strange, I don’t really understand it,” Fidelity confesses.  “Why don’t they just accept the bargain?  The terms were generous enough, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Nadarans,” Clemence says with a dismissive wave of her hand, “They’re overprotective.  They’ve ascribed far too much significance to this one aspect of their culture and it clouds their judgement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” I reply, chewing my lip.  “The Bond and the dragons that bear it are a pillar of their society.  It wouldn’t be prudent to be incautious about such things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence merely gives an elegant shrug.  “Ultimately, it is foreign politics.  It is not our opinions that matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not,” I reply.  “It’s not foreign — not anymore.  Not to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both go quiet after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never manage to catch Feon for long enough to hear his opinion on the matter.  He’s turned suddenly elusive, his presence naught more than a whisper of smoke.  My workroom becomes a sullen, silent place without his voice to drown out the scratching of my quill or the rasp of parchment on parchment.  The palace feels too large without him taking up more than his fair share of space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then something changes.  Mouths turn from debating the outcome of the negotiations to fostering new excitement: a festival.  The palace is polished to gleaming and the ballroom is a whirlwind of frenzied decorating.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Caederyn gets a glimpse of my outfit and proclaims me unprepared, he sends Sir Sieglinde along with his apologies to accompany me to an appointment with the royal couturier.  She’s a short, sweet-faced woman with a mouth full of sewing pins and a tongue sharp enough to make them bleed from envy.  She ushers her tailors to take my measurements while I stand on a small raised platform in naught but my undergarments, Sir Sieglinde not far behind me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without looking back at me, the couturier (who I learn is named Vinaya) asks, “Which of the traditional four will you be dressed as then, Princess?”  She’s bent over a worktable stacked high with books and fabrics and loose sheets of velum, an ink-stained dip pen in one plump hand and an outrageously large peacock feather in the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er — what?” I reply eloquently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vinaya makes a clicking sound with her tongue.  “For Soluna.”  When I don’t reply, she adds (very slowly as if to a child): “You know.  The Sumer Solstice.  The festival.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I got that bit, thank you.  Is there some customary dress, then?” I ask, uncertain if I should be insulted or amused by her attitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, she leans forward over her desk so that she can glare past me at Sir Sieglinde, true malice in her large, doe-like eyes.  “Have you told her </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she demands, her messy bun bobbing back and forth with outrage.  “Really?  Must I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything?  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t make me tap the sign.”  She raises a hand and points up at the wall behind her desk, where sits affixed a golden plaque that reads “Don’t Waste My Time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that it’s a big costume party,” I reply, perhaps somewhat more defensively than is necessary.  “I’d thought myself aptly prepared — I have my mask and everything — but Caederyn said it wouldn’t do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hurrah, bully for you and your venerable self,” she says scathingly and points an accusing, ink-stained finger back at Sir Sieglinde.  “You.  Explain.  I don’t have time for this.”  She grumbles to herself about the last minute rush order and scratches at her cheek, leaving behind a smear of ink, before she returns to her work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, right,” Sir Sieglinde begins, clearly out of sorts.  She laughs nervously and then clears her throat.  “So, right, okay, so Soluna celebrates the first Bond and also, you know, summer and the Solstice and the first light of the longest day and really you can dress as whatever you like and most people do, but there </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> some costumes that are traditional, and as the prince’s betrothed, you’ll likely be expected to dress as one of those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” I reply, “That’s simple enough.  What are the costumes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde raises a hand and ticks off her fingers.  “Well, firstly there’s Solene, of course.  And then Koel — or any dragon, really.  And the Blood as well — the blood of the Bond, or the first blood spilled, or something, it’s sort of unclear...  Anyway, lastly, there’s the Sun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I say slowly.  “So which should I dress as?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde shrugs.  “Any of them is fine, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are Caederyn and Feon dressing as?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She merely shrugs again.  “I’m uncertain, my lady.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vinaya snorts loud enough that it makes me jolt, resulting in my taking a pin directly to the fleshy underside of my arm.  The tailor at my elbow winces in sympathy and tries to apologize, but I wave it aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lord Feon will dress as Koel — or himself,” the couturier says.  “He nearly always does, the lazy beast.  As for the prince, this year he has chosen Solene as his guise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, then,” I reply, “So the Sun or the Blood, then.  What is your professional opinion on the matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vinaya pauses in her work and turns to appraise me.  She’s short and round and deceptively harmless-looking, like a hamster that’s found a knife and learnt to wield it.  It’s the first time she’s really looked at me since I arrived and I find myself steeling my will to meet her gaze evenly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At length, she says, “The sun.  White will become you nicely,” and that is the end of the discussion.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The morning of the festival, I’m ferried back down into Vinaya’s domain, where her assistants do one last fitting before promptly turning me on my heel and telling me to leave.  I don’t take it personally.  They’ve scant hours left to perform the final alterations and all of them have that distinctly glassy-eyed, harried look that comes with too many hours of work and not enough sleep.  I feel faintly guilty.  Still, despite the desperate timeframe and the exhaustion in their faces, the results are marvelous.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’d balked at the design at first: not at the clothing itself, but rather at what the design required of me.  During that first fitting when Vinaya had bade me to strip to full nakedness, I’d been curious and then appalled.  I’d assumed that there would be some special undergarments required for the ensemble.  I’ve seen the slimmer silhouettes preferred by the Nadarans, as well as the occasional bared back or midriff, and had wondered at what sort of stays and drawers they required.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer, to my dismay, was none (or nearly) — depending on the garment.  Vinaya’s girls had carefully slid me into a cropped white blouse, their gazes kept modestly averted until I was in some semblance of dress.  It was plain cotton then, unembellished and unlined, but there was a structure to the bodice that I wasn’t expecting, a surprising sturdiness in the construction of it.  Still, the feeling of that single layer of clothing against my skin — no chemise, no stays — was so unsettlingly light I’d kept fretting over it until Vinaya had sighed and forcibly turned me around so that my back was to the large mirror before us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You see this?” she had said impatiently as she pressed a hand mirror into my grasp and gestured to my back.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blouse laid like a second skin over my chest and shoulders.  The neckline was higher than I’d usually wear, but the back dipped away to expose my shoulder blades.  And above this, attached at the crest of the capped sleeves, was a small white cord tied neatly into a bow, the free ends culminating in delicate beaded tassels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful,” I had replied, my brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This,” Vinaya said and gestured proudly to the open back, “Is not possible with your undergarments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sighed and nodded and we got underway.  Vinaya’s assistants had pinned a distressingly thin petticoat in place and then had patiently shown me how to wrap my saree.  Judging by their pinched expressions, I don’t think I did a terribly good job.  Eventually, one of the girls had taken pity on me and (in whispered tones so that Vinaya would not hear) had told me she’d make a simple undergarment for my comfort — one that would not “ruin the line” as Vinaya had put it.  I’d thanked her profusely and quietly and had left the fitting feeling quite overwhelmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, the final preparation goes smoothly.  Truth be told, there was not much alteration needed after the morning’s fitting, but there was a measure of delicate embellishing still to be done and when Vinaya’s assistants slide me into the thin, fishtailed petticoat (more of a slip, really) and button it closed, I glimpse the redness of their overtaxed fingertips.  One of them helps me into the blouse, heavy now with beading and embroidery.  It fits so close to the skin that it almost feels as if I am wearing nothing at all and the whole thing has been lined in a material so soft I worry at its delicacy.  The girl does up the buttons at the back and ties the cord just below my neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there is the saree: long and gauzy and glittering white.  It’s sheer all the way through and painstakingly embroidered in a subtle pattern of shimmering white thread and studded with what I realize are tiny pieces of drachenglas that twinkle and shine.  That same shimmering white thread patterns my petticoat.  It’s nearly imperceptible from a distance, but it adds a surprising depth to the fabric, and when overlaid with the net cloth of the saree, it is absolutely breathtaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the tailor girls bring out the saree, I reach for it, but before I can so much as touch it, they are wrapping it about me with a practiced care I could never hope to emulate.  They show me a hidden button they’ve sewn on at the waist for my benefit and then drape the remaining length of gauzy fabric over one shoulder so that it cascades gracefully down that arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the girls lets out a wistful sigh and says, “You look like a snow princess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hair is arranged in an elegant updo and my wrists and neck are adorned with golden jewelry studded with drachenglas.  That same girl who made for me a set of undergarments (no more than a sad little swath of cloth held together with the thinnest of twine, more like a loincloth than proper drawers) shows me how to affix my saree to the bangles of my opposite wrist, should I grow weary of towing a small train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vinaya herself brings my mask to me.  It’s the first time I’ve seen it since they took an impression of my face for its creation.  It’s a massive golden thing, a wild sunburst that ends in twin arcs beneath my eyes so that it rests over my cheekbones, baring my nose and mouth.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They affix it carefully with a fine golden chain weighted at the back with a cascade of precious gems.  It’s heavy and cold and strange and I feel all together not quite myself, simultaneously stripped bare by the lack of proper undergarments and hidden by this mask.  The petticoat and saree cling to my hips and draw in close to my legs, closer than I am really comfortable with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now you look like a sun queen,” Vinaya says approvingly, her hands resting upon my shoulders as she gazes upon my reflection — though I think she is more surveying her own work than she is me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all worth it, I think, for the look on Caederyn’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girls are all a titter when finally they let him in.  He stops short in the doorway.  “Oh,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, indeed.  He’s dressed modestly, clothed entirely in deepest black.  It’s fine material, I think — soft and thin and perfectly fitted — but the design itself is simple.  His hands, too, are black: stained by soot or something similar.  His eyes have likewise been treated with some form of kohl.  They’ve been made all smoky, the shape narrowing into sharp points at the inner corners of his eyes, almost like some sort of bird of prey.  Even his belt and sheathe are black for the occasion.  The only bits of color upon his person are a thin golden band circling his brow and a single red line drawn down the center of his bottom lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought this was a masquerade,” I muse, surveying his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn makes an inelegant shrugging motion and opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose technically the makeup may count.  Or the circlet...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I approach him with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regardless, I see now why my wardrobe wouldn’t do.  I’ve not done a good job of integrating Nadaran styles into my repertoire — or at any rate, I certainly haven’t anything like this in my closet,” I say, and gesture down towards myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn gives me an apologetic look.  “I’m sorry,” he says, “I hadn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hadn’t thought of it?” I finish for him, still smiling.  He nods.  “That seems to be a pattern for you.  Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> think of it, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jasper, usually,” Caederyn admits.  “He chooses most of my clothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have to thank him, then, considering how lovely you look tonight.”  I grin.  “And every night.  Tonight, though — phwoar, but look at you!  You’ve got something of a feral look about you.”  I laugh as Caederyn goes a bit pink in the cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Allene,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he hisses, galled (but also I think somewhat pleased).  “Allene, I’m the one meant to tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> that — not the feral bit, you know what I mean!  The — the lovely bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh again, bright and easy.  “Oh, Caederyn, don’t worry — I saw your face when you first spotted me.  I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how you feel.”  He splutters something inarticulate and I wave it aside.  “Oh, alright, hold on.”  I raise my arms and do a slow spin for him.  “How was that, then?  What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn makes a gently choked sound in the back of his throat before he manages to stutter out, “Beautiful, Allene.  You look so beautiful.”  I think he’s actually gone a bit teary, though it’s hard to tell with all that kohl around his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment is broken by the arrival of Vinaya’s attention.  “Yes, yes, your graces,” she says impatiently, “You both look impeccable — thanks to me — now get </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span> of my atelier before I’ve a mind to tell you how I really feel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Caederyn mutters under his breath.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think Vinaya hears, but she gives him a withering look all the same and swiftly ejects us from her vicinity — I suspect so that she and her assistants can sleep at long last.  I frown up at Caederyn as we join with our entourage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the guards are on duty tonight, all five of them, and they’re dressed smartly in their uniform best, all polished to a shine, each of them with a simple but well-crafted half mask of their own.  Jasper matches them, dressed simply in deepest red with a mask of the same color; he must be the blood, I think, and I realize that the guards must be as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fidelity beams at me when I approach, her coppery hair bedecked by a wreath of seasonal flowers, her body draped in some soft, pink thing, a golden arrow clutched in one hand and little feathery white wings adorning her back.  She looks adorable and when I tell her so she flushes and laughs with giddy anticipation.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence could not be dressed more differently.  She’s clad in Voswainian menswear, an elegant black suit impeccably tailored to her willowy body, her dark hair slicked back, her pale face half covered by a bone white mask that cuts diagonally across her features.  I snort at her choice of dress — the Specter of the Symphony?  Really? — but she meets my gaze evenly all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking Caederyn’s arm in my own, I swiftly poke him in the side with a finger from the opposite hand.  “Are you alright?” I ask quietly.  “Do you dislike the couturier or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn sighs and raises his hand to press his fingers to his eyes, but stops mid-motion when he remembers his makeup.  He aborts the gesture and there’s a sort of unfulfilled sullenness to his face that would be funny if I weren’t so worried about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says at last.  “No, she’s unpleasant, but I don’t mind.  Usually.  And it’s certainly my fault for putting her in that position.”  He sounds more like himself now — pensive and subdued, the ire drained from his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we near the secondary entrance to the ballroom (the one meant only for the royal family), I glance up at him, frowning.  “You didn’t answer my first question, Caed.  Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances down at me for a scant moment and then shrugs.  “I’m well enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not an answer and he knows it.  If Feon were a man I’d make some scathing remark about men and their inability to properly express their feelings.  As it is, my brothers seem perfectly capable of expressing themselves, and so I think it must be some terrible Nadaran custom — or at the very least, some result of being raised by an iron wall and a wilting flower.  In some ways, I feel deeply sorry for my boys — for Caederyn and Feon — even in the height of my frustration with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All these thoughts flee my head the moment I lay eyes upon Feon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long to find him.  Caederyn and I enter the ballroom, our guards in tow, and there is a momentary lull in conversation that ripples outward from us as people turn to stare.  The chamber is configured much as it was during the engagement ball, with small half-moon tables peppering the foot and a stage for performers at the head.  The domed drachenglas ceiling is lit up to full brilliance, so bright it’s hard to believe it’s past sunfall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Feon is seated at the high table, resplendent in all his golden glory.  I find it strange, for a moment, that he is there and not a part of our entourage, but that thought is quickly forgotten as I lose myself in my appreciation of him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the light of the drachenglas is bright, then he is brighter still.  He glitters so fiercely he seems to shine.  He’s dressed entirely in a soft, gauzy, golden fabric that wraps around his torso to join at the throat before parting, baring his sternum and arms and most of his Bond mark.  His waist is bound with a thick crimson sash and a number of fine gilt chains, beneath which the fabric falls in free-flowing, semi-transparent folds over a set of golden, skin-tight hose and shining golden slippers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The back of his — what should I call it, a tunic? A dress? — sweeps low, exposing his shoulders and spine, and everywhere his skin lays bare, it is worked into an elegant pattern of golden scales interspersed with precious gems in red and orange.  His hands end in fine, jeweled claws that glitter malevolently.  A line of rough, red gems culminating in ruby teardrops dangle from each of his earlobes.  A pair of gleaming horns protrude from his crown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks beautiful.  It is a concoction of singularly slutty design and I want to ravish him completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” I say as I take the seat to his left and Caederyn takes the other seat beside mine.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Wow.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon rolls his eyes, but he looks a little bit pleased regardless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this, then?” I ask, gesturing to the both of them.  “I thought this was a sort of masquerade, you know, but you’ve both gone bare-faced.  And here I am with this massive thing on my head, just looking the fool while I’m sat between the two of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please,” Feon says, and rolls his eyes again.  He turns towards me and the golden light rolls over his cheeks like a breath, like a kiss, like his glittering skin is a dancing river at sunset.  He gestures towards the scales that lay prominently across his face.  “Why wear a mask when I have the real thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lean in, one finger moving to brush along the line of his cheek, where the gems glint and gleam between his gilt scales.  “Were those imbedded in or did you grow them yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon’s spluttering is drowned out by the pounding of a drum and as the domed ceiling dims, a single, bright spotlight shines upon the stage.  The din of chatter instantly drops to a low, excited murmur.  I glance back at Caederyn and give him a questioning look and nearly hit him with one of the outer most points of my sunburst mask.  Lore and stone!  He shakes his head at me, a small laugh caught in his nose, and gestures towards the stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a play — and a relatively short one at that.  There is no speaking, no singing, but the drum beats loud and the rest of the troupe follows suit, various instruments taking the place of human voices as the drama plays out.  It’s the tale of Solene and Koel — their meeting and their union — or at least one version of it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Solene rises from the ashes of a village marred by plague, her body stained with soot, her eyes fierce and proud.  When Koel joins the tale, he is played by a number of actors puppeteering a long, serpentine body with a massive draconic head affixed to the front.  They fend off evil in a dance so blindingly fast I worry for the performers’ calves.  Still, it’s beautiful to watch.  The Nadarans have made an art out of movement and costume: the way the fabric flows and ripples as they dance, it’s like choreographed streamers beholden only to the wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The play ends with Solene’s death: her final martyrdom on the western cliffs, her heart’s blood spilling too fast to be staunched, and there, holding her, was Koel, his golden scales stained red, red, red.  In Solene’s last moments, they made a promise, her hand gripped tight by golden claw until that final breath left her and her hand fell limp from Koel’s grasp.  So too fell Koel, the writhing mass of his body shedding, his heavy dragon’s head cracking in twain, leaving only one body, shining and golden, his face astonishing in its beauty, his newly human hands clutching hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Koel gives a last, singular howl, the sound of the actor’s voice —the only human voice uttered in the entirety of the performance — made louder and more terrible by the crashing of cymbals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spotlight cuts off, leaving us in utter blackness, and there are several moments of muted scuffling before the light of the drachenglas ceiling returns in full force, leaving us all blinking and dazed as the acting troupe take their bows one by one to enthusiastic applause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lean over towards Caederyn and whisper, “Well, that was all very dramatic.  I’m confused as to why I never read anything of the sort during my — ahem — research.  I thought Solene died in childbirth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn shrugs.  “It’s a dramatization.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> I ask, half bemused, half irritated.  “I swear, but no one seems to have a definitive narrative for what actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Caederyn means to answer me, he doesn’t get the chance, for the king is standing and giving a hearty round of applause.  Neither he nor the queen have elected to wear costumes.  They are each dressed simply in black, an homage to Solene without being an outright likeness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night progresses from there.  Performers flood the stage in ever escalating tides, each group seeking to outdo the previous.  When the meal starts, servants make the rounds, proffering to each guest a tiny glass around the height of my thumb and filled to the brim with a clear liquid, a single bead of red suspended at its center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” I ask, holding the drink up to my eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An eclipse.  Here, it’s tradition.”  Caederyn raises his glass to mine, clinking them together, a small wave of drink sloshing over each rim and into the other glass, before bringing his to his lips.  He waits until I follow suit and then tips his drink back and downs it in one, clear liquid and red bead alike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to mimic him, and find myself gagging on the fiery liquid within.  There’s no way to describe it except to say it is hell distilled into drink.  For all that the eclipse is ostensibly room temperature, the taste of it is molten.  It burns hotter than a forge, a rush of fire and bitterness that threatens to scoop out my insides in one clean go.  I’d say it was so foul it almost didn’t have a taste, but that would be a lie.  It tastes like ass.  Worse than ass.  It tastes like how I imagine embalming fluid might taste, only after it’s been used: caustic and bitter and foul as all hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slam my glass down on the table with enough force that some of the remaining liquid slops over the sides.  At my right, Feon is in stitches, his face flushed as he howls with laughter.  Caederyn looks at me kindly.  With the gentlest of touches, he reaches into my glass and draws out the small red bead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me,” he says, and presses it to my lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take it, my eyes locked on his the entire time, and when the bead bursts between my teeth, my mouth is flooded with flavor: sweet and tart and near supernal; ambrosia and nectar in one, a uniquely cool taste, almost like a pomegranate seed, but more, like an ocean of goodness, a taste I can only describe as being so very </span>
  <em>
    <span>red</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would you do this to me,” I wheeze, my voice still raspy from my fit of choking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good, isn’t it?” Caederyn asks and eventually I nod, however reluctantly.  “Best eat up now.  Get something in your stomach before the eclipse hits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t work, not really.  By the time the salads have been taken away I feel myself teetering on the edge of what promises to be a very good night.  The room is so very bright and so full of laughter and I wonder if the eclipse is so strong because this — this beverage which the hellnaut himself would hesitate to imbibe — is what it takes to make Nadarans truly loosen up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How often do you drink these?” I ask, as servants bring out another round.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn smiles and presses the glass to his lips.  “Only tonight,” he says, and drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to Feon’s disappointment, I manage my second glass better than my first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Ballards arrive well into the night, so late that dinner has concluded and all but the high table have been cleared away for dancing.  Lysithea and Halwynn cut through the hubbub, each of them bedecked almost entirely in riverspun silk as if to flaunt what the Nadarans could have had.  They glint in a myriad of soft rainbow colors that are echoed by their opalescent masks, looking for all the world like a pair of incredibly beautiful and highly controversial fish.  I feel dizzy just looking at them — or perhaps it’s the third eclipse that someone pressed into my hands just moments before.  Hmm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unease tails the Ballards like a hound on a scent.  Everywhere they go, eyes follow, and when Lysithea gamely ignores Caederyn and Feon and pulls me into a jaunty dance that has nothing Nadaran about it save the tempo, I can practically feel the whispers forming.  I laugh in the face of it all, spinning and spinning and spinning, her hand in mine, her breath on my face, until the crowd all blurs into one like so much sand on the beach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stop only when I can dance no more, when my legs are shaking and I feel ill from so much laughter.  As I’m gasping for air, Lysithea takes my hands in her own and presses each to her lips, one set of knuckles and then the other, and all the while her argent eyes hold mine.  I wave her away with glee and despite her protests I stumble off to find something to drink — Laws what I wouldn’t do for some water before I perish!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m halfway to the adjoining refreshments chamber when my shoulder skims another.  I turn and begin to apologize, taking a step backwards and away, but then my back hits something — or someone.  I glance over my shoulder and find Feon standing there, a glass in one jeweled claw of a hand and a frown on his face.  My faux pas forgotten, I take him by the shoulders and kiss him breezily on each cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laws, but you are a wicked thing,” I breathe.  “Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like you’re having fun,” he says.  His golden eyes narrow to slits as he leans up on his toes and gets a whiff of my breath.  “Sun above, how much have you had to drink, woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slide my arm into his and pull him to my side so that we’re now walking together — no mind that I’ve fully turned him around in the direction he came from.  “Oh, you’re just mad that I’m better at partying than you are.”  I laugh at his sour expression and finally — finally — score myself a glass of water.  It’s deliciously cold and I sigh with pleasure into the cup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon just rolls his eyes.  “Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>a metric I care about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should,” I reply sensibly.  “Maybe if you had a little more fun in your life you’d be less...”  I frown down at him as I try to find the right word.  “Less... </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I give up and gesture at the entirety of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why anyone likes you,” he says, deadpan.  “Surely it’s not your personality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I jab him gently in the side.  “Oh, hush, you vulgarian.  You know you love me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wait expectantly for Feon’s retort, already anticipating the construction of my response, but none comes, and when I lean forward to peer into his eyes, he rips his arm free from mine and flees, leaving a trail of chaos behind him as he pushes people out of his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I drift after that, finishing my water and then nibbling at some h'ordeuvres as I pass from one conversation to the next, never staying very long.  Perhaps Feon is right and I may have had a bit much to drink.  Laws only know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> is in those eclipses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, I find Clemence and Fidelity deep in conversation with a girl I’ve not met — she’s short and dark-haired and busty and has a distinct air of mischief about her.  I like her almost instantly.  Fidelity seems less certain — she’s glancing back and forth between Clemence and the new girl, her brow knit, a frown pulling at her sweet lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence sighs and continues what sounds more like a war of attrition than a conversation.  “As much as you may like her, it’s not as if we’ve seen so much as a hint of her since that night — since I told her Lady Renée would be visiting.  I don’t think it a coincidence.  She saw the writing on the wall and she disappeared before the ramifications of her actions could play out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown.  “I’m sorry — who are we talking about now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence gives me a pinched look and says in a hushed tone, “My lady, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> about my suspicions towards Lady Fae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” I say and throw back my head and laugh, the action made uncomfortable by the weight of my mask.  “Oh, yes, I’m well aware.  And you’re correct — she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> suspicious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fidelity begins to protest, but Clemence cuts her off sharply.  “Princess, what do you know that we don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I dimple at the lot of them.  “Oh, I think we don’t quite have time for </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> list.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look Clemence gives me is vile.  I love it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Princess Allene,” she begins again, and when I hear the hardness in her voice, I stop laughing.  “What do you know about Lady Fae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” I begin, slightly sobered (in attitude if not in actuality).  “Enough.  I know that she’s not from Cindwick, for one.”  At the look on Clemence’s face, I smile.  “Listen, my dear one, I very much appreciate your concern and your resourcefulness.  You know I love that about you.  But in this case, it is not necessary.  Feon may be a menace, but in this particular circumstance, he is not a danger.  Actually, I think this whole business has been rather good for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My words are met with silence.  I look between the three of them in confusion and find them all agape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I say, brow furrowing.  “Hello?  Have I suddenly acquired a gorgon’s stony gaze?  Are you all statues now?”  I wave my hand in front of their faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence recovers first.  “Princess — did I hear you correctly?  Did you just refer to Lady Fae as Lord Feon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.  I slap my hand to my face and wince as my metal mask bites into my skin on both sides.  “Ow.  No.  Yes?”  I wave my smarting hand and give her a pleading look as my heart rate rises.  “Oh, Clemence, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> drunk, please don’t listen to a thing I’ve said.  It’s nonsense, the lot of it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look Clemence gives me is cold enough to shrivel even the stoutest of trees.  “My lady, in the infinitely wise words of your dear eldest brother the Crown Prince Cassidy: </span>
  <em>
    <span>no take backsies, bitch.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Once the cat’s out of the bag you don’t get to pretend the cat doesn’t exist anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, bother,” I mumble, brow furrowed.  “So we can’t forget I’ve let this slip?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid not,” Clemence says, tight-lipped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone hiccups loudly and I startle, my eyes falling to Fidelity.  She’s white-faced and wet-eyed and her lips are all a tremble.  She stands there, unspeaking, her body wound tighter than a spool of Vinaya’s finest thread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll just — I’m going — goodnight!!”  The words tumble from her lips with wretched speed, like each word is more painful than the last, and before I can so much as try to stop her, she’s turned tail and run, pushing her way through the crowd and out into the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hell, I’ve really messed this up, haven’t I?” I sigh.  “Alright, well, I’d better go—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence stops me with a shake of her head and a hand on my shoulder.  “No, I think you’ve done quite enough tonight, my lady.  I’ll talk with her.”  There’s a coldness in her voice, but beneath that, a concern.  I know she’s absolutely livid with me for keeping this secret — but her love for Fidelity trumps her anger with me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” I say, chastened.  “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence raises her brow.  “Are you?  Truly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I think so.”  I chew on my lip.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.”  I groan and press my hands over my eyes, only to be met by that blasted mask once again.  “Probably not.  Sorry.  Oh, hell!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clemence releases my shoulder and turns to follow Fidelity out, leaving me alone (well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not truly, not given the scope of the party) with that dark-haired girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I say again, completely out of sorts.  “I’ve quite forgotten your name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs brightly, whatever her name is, seemingly unperturbed (or rather, entertained?) by the drama she just witnessed.  “That’s alright, Princess.  I’ll introduce myself properly once you’re good and sober.”  She gives me a cheeky wink and a wave and disappears into the crowd, leaving me to my own thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, hell,” I mutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night deepens and the party rages on.  At this point, I haven’t the faintest idea what time it is.  I refuse each drink proffered to me until I am — well, if not sober, then at least a good deal less drunk.  When at last I find Caederyn surrounded by a circle of hangers on, he looks positively miserable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come, you,” I say and loop my arm through his.  “I’m stealing you away for my own nefarious purposes.”  I grin at him and apologize to the others as I drag my betrothed off, and he follows after me gratefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to be honest, Caederyn,” I say as we walk together.  “As lovely as it is, I think I’m over this party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you not having fun?” he asks somberly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No — I mean — I was, but everyone is being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> and then there’s this blasted </span>
  <em>
    <span>mask.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I sigh and tap at it with my free hand.  “Can we get out of here?  Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn stops, and his arm tethers me in place with him.  He looks me over.  Bites his lip.  His face is kissed with the pink flush of drink and his eyes are shining something fierce.  “I had actually asked Father if we might attend the public festival tonight, rather than — or in lieu of the royal one.  Being as it’s your first Soluna and all, I thought it would be nice...”  He wets his lips nervously.  “But father thought it would be prudent to have you here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caederyn,” I breathe giddily, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?  Are you — are you thinking of sneaking out together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blanches.  “No — I don’t know, maybe.  No.  It was a thought, but, no.  It’s a horrible idea.”  He looks away from me.  I cup his face with my hands and stare into his eyes.  “Maybe,” he whispers.  “We shouldn’t, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you and what have you done with my betrothed?” I ask wonderingly before kissing him square on the lips.  “Oh, Caederyn, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I would love nothing better!  We’ll do whatever needs be done for our safety — we’ll take Feon, take the whole guard, I don’t care!  Oh, Caed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please!”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I don’t care that I’m practically begging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He relents, finally, giving me that short, clipped nod that belies his uncertainty.  I beam up at him.  “We’ll talk with the captain, first, and get her approval.  And I think — I do think we’d best bring Feon.”  His expression sobers slightly at that and he sighs.  “Maybe we’d better not—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I mumble and kiss him, hard, before his feet can grow any colder.  “Oh, don’t you back out before we’ve even begun.  Come, let’s go talk with Captain Elske.  I think I spotted her near the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Determination flooding my veins, I steer Caederyn forward until we find the captain, and much to my luck we come across Feon along the way.  Without so much as a how-do-you-do, I link my free arm through his and pull him with us as well, grinning as he splutters at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you — hold on — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Allene!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh and laugh until we’ve reached the captain and Caederyn explains our intent.  She frowns at the lot of us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think with Feon and with the more discreet members of our guard — Hazley and yourself — it wouldn’t be too terribly foolhardy,” Caederyn says anxiously.  I can feel his will to rebel steadily wilt under the captain’s steely gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Connor speaks up.  She rests her elbow on the captain’s shoulder and leans into her, a slow grin spreading across her lips.  “Oh, come now, Eslke, let the kid have some fun for once.”  Captain Elske shoots Connor a dark look that does nothing to quell her subordinate’s mirth.  “Listen, I’ll even go with them.  You know I’m good in a crowd.”  She laughs and cracks her knuckles loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get off,” the captain says and brushes Connor’s elbow off her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look that Connor gives the captain can only be described as a leer, but she brokers no argument.  “I’d love to.”  She winks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If ever one should wish to bottle up the essence of murderous intent, they would need to look no further than the captain’s face.  “Right,” she says.  “The three of you, Hazley, and myself—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And me,” Connor interjects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—And Connor,” the captain relents.  She takes a moment to allow her irritation with us to take precedence, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.  “This is a terrible idea.  We’ll take the full force of the private guard — Brennard and Sir Sieglinde as well — and the eight of us will go into town together.  You will stick close to us, you will heed our instructions, and you will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> let me regret this.”  She looks us each in the eye and I can hardly believe my luck.  Giddiness blooms within me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, of course, yes!”  I laugh and before I can stop myself I launch forward and pull the captain into a hug.  She is completely stiff beneath me and scarcely a moment later I feel her strong, capable hands on my shoulders, hard as rocks, as she slowly but steadily detaches me from herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you ever do that again, I will have you sequestered to your chambers for a full week.  No guests, no tower, just you and your guards and an extra heaping of remorse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think she has the power to do that, but I am chastened nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apologies, Captain,” I say hurriedly.  “I got too excited.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The captain merely raises a brow at me and then sends Connor off to find the others, and then together we depart.  Captain Elske leaves word with a palace guard to run notice up to the king, and then we’re all piling into an inconspicuous carriage, Feon and Caederyn and I all sat inside, the captain and Connor in the driver’s box, Sir Sieglinde at the back, and Brennard and Hazley on horseback.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can hardly contain my glee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve not been given leave to roam outside the palace much, not aside from some carefully plotted day trips for research or shopping or the like.  Assuredly, anything I want I could find in the palace or at the very least have delivered to me, but it’s different to do so myself, and without the impetus of having a specific goal in mind — to feel the crisp night air, still cool despite the prominence of summer, whip past me as we race down the road, the carriage bouncing merrily beneath us — for no reason more than because I wish it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How we manage to squeeze our way into the festival, I will never know.  The streets are </span>
  <em>
    <span>packed.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Overhead, the sky is black as a dream, but the city itself is alight with joy.  It seems the whole city has come out to celebrate, to laugh and to sing and to dance; to perform and to watch; to buy and to sell.  And all of them — near all of them — are masked, a city of strange, painted, glittering faces, like a world of spirits come to flesh.  My chest feels full with it, my lungs fit to bursting with excitement, my feet light and heart bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The captain directs the carriage into a small side street that is nevertheless packed.  Connor hops down and ropes in someone nearby, some unfortunate teen tasked with the managing of the closest stable.  I don’t know what she says or how much she pays him, but soon he is moving with alacrity, performing some impossible task of spacial arrangement, and all of a sudden a space for us opens up in the stables.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pin my saree to my bangles so that it doesn’t drag on the street and step outside, out into the city, and take a deep breath, which is somewhat impeded by the way my mask pinches the bridge of my nose.  I scowl and tug the horrid thing off, wincing as the clasp gets stuck in my hair.  Caederyn smiles benevolently and waves my hands aside and undoes it himself, his hands warm and gentle against the back of my neck.  Finally freed, I take another deep breath, and a myriad of scents hits me: roasting meat and baking bread and sweet citrus and sugar and perfume.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s better,” I gasp and shake my head.  “How is my hair?”  I put my hands to my hips and grin back at my boys, looking to each of them in turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look beau—” Caederyn starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like shit,” Feon says loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut it, bird boy,” I reply without heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon frowns.  Bites his lip.  Furrows his brow.  Hesitates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he leans forward and, with surprising delicacy, arranges my hair.  I watch him the whole time, though Feon steadfastly avoids my gaze.  It’s strangely intimate, out here with the whole city come to life, with Caederyn at my back and the guards only slightly further afield.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s finished, he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Well, that’s better.  Now you look moderately less bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The captain arranges our guard — she and Brennard at the head, with Hazley and Connor on either side of our trio, and Sir Sieglinde bringing up the rear.  If any of us get lost or get into trouble, she’ll have the best vantage point to see us and will be the easiest for us to find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole city feels like one massive party.  I watch as a troupe of tumblers weave through the crowd, laughing as one summersaults between the legs of a man on stilts.  A woman with a voice more lovely than a rose in bloom sings, high and bright, and a chorus follows her in harmony, the sound carrying from the rooftop upon which they perch.  A man dressed entirely in white and black presses a desert mallow into my hand and when I try to pay him, he merely laughs and winks before proffering a daffodil towards Feon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eat shit,” Feon says lazily and without heat.  Without so much as a sound, he man makes an overly exaggerated face of mock betrayal and pretends to faint backwards into the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor points us towards a stall doing a roaring trade outside a pub and when we approach the booth, the man behind it grins and pulls her into a firm, one-armed hug over the table.  We stop momentarily for drinks — for me, a sweet, chilled tea with bourbon and lemon.  At some point, we are hit by a scent that leaves us all companionably ravenous, and by the time we hit the kebab stand, I have to swallow back my salivation before I can eat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stop by a strange cart, all black iron framework and crude steel with a domed top.  I ooh and ah appreciatively as a woman with biceps like chiseled stone pulls and shapes a small bubble of molten glass, heating it time and again in a glowing red hole in the cart’s edifice.  The night is cool — and though I’ve been in Nadara for some seven or so weeks, I still find that strange given the day’s heat — but the mobile forge burns hot and bright, radiating warmth in a wide circle.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the press of bodies, in the blackness of the night the moment feels somehow private, like it’s just me and the glassblower and her craft, and she distilled down to no more than a vehicle for the flame that she wields.  The flickering shards of faces illuminated by the forge’s glow might as well be apparitions, their skin turned red and orange, their excited breaths all swallowed by the the rolling heat, the air somehow made thick by it.  It feels mystical in a way I don’t quite understand, for there is no magic at work here (save perhaps the mechanism of the small forge itself).  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how long we linger at her cart.  I feels like years, like eons.  Then I catch the glassblower’s grin, her face made ruddy by the forge’s glow, as she presses something into my hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This should be sufficiently cooled,” she says and returns to her craft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hot to the touch, but not unbearably so.  It feels like starlight, like cupping some fragment of the sun in my hands, intimate and otherworldly and beautiful for it.  The object is small and sharp, no taller than the first knuckle of my thumb, and clear all the way through: a delicate, many-pointed star.  I hold it up to my face, the points biting into the pads of my thumb and forefinger, and the forge’s glow turns it to molten gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To my dismay, when I go to place the small glass star carefully into one of my pockets, I remember that tonight I do not have any.  The glassblower laughs and with only a few minutes’ time, she affixes the trinket to one of my bangles.  I thank her profusely while Caederyn steps in smoothly to pay.  At last, we leave, for though I am reluctant to do so, Feon has begun to stir into a minor snit.  With every step, I can feel the charm clink daintily against my bangles, its heat radiating outwards, a tiny beacon of warmth that occasionally brushes the skin of my palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything feels large, somehow, exaggerated from its normal proportions.  The people are louder and brighter, the music more beautiful, the food more delicious.  And above it all, the sky: a black blanket of epic proportions, so very vast it seems to hold me, saturating my heart in joy and melancholy.  Is this what Caederyn meant about the Nadaran spirit all those weeks ago?  Frivolity and sorrow ever mingled in the hearts of Solene’s people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter, Allene?” Caederyn murmurs into my ear, leaned close to me so that only I can hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can only shake my head, my voice caught somewhere between my heart and throat.  At last I manage, “I think the bourbon made me weepy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles at that and it’s so soft, so unguarded, that I want nothing more than to touch him — and so I do, mingling our fingers, my thumb running down the side of his hand.  I feel, at least in some measure, that I or the festival have thawed him, eased his mind and turned it, in a small way, towards pleasure.  He looks better than he has in days, perhaps weeks, the rosy glow of the festival lights lending a warmth to his face that it lacked.  I hadn’t realized, before this moment, that it had been missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even Feon seems to be relaxing, unable to remain untouched by so much merriment, the tension of his body unwinding like a rosebud slowly unfurling its petals.  He is a flame at my side, so hot I find myself sweating.  All around, all sorts of people have made themselves up in the dragon’s image, their faces and hair painted gold, their bodies swathed in gilt fabric.  It affords Feon an amount of camouflage and he blends in — or nearly, for though the others glitter prettily, he alone is truly radiant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At a costumer’s booth, I laugh when I see a wall of massive, over-decorated masks hanging in neat columns one under another, in so many colors and shapes it’s near dizzying.  I pick one from its hook: a huge, gaudy, golden thing in the shape of a dragon’s head, with horns and feathers and a long snout.  I place it upon Feon, tying the fastenings at the back of his skull and arranging it so the plume of feathers splay neatly around his true horns.  It’s a bit hard to see, but I think he is glaring at me from behind those glittering eye holes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” I exclaim, my body wracked by laughter, “Oh, please, Feon, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>must.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sir — sir, how much for the mask?  It becomes my companion so beautifully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vendor is paid and I leave the exchange feeling richer for it.  From behind the mask’s snout, I can see the curl of Feon’s scowl, but he wears the mask all the same.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to kill you,” Feon says conversationally.  He gives an aggrieved sort of harrumph and crosses his arms over his chest as we rejoin the group.  The mask sheds something fierce and every movement of his body is followed by a small shower of poorly applied sequins.  Every now and then, an errant feather comes loose.  Most of them end up in his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight of him makes Connor laugh so hard we have to stop for her to catch her breath.  Even the stalwart captain is given pause when she sees him.  She stands there, her entire body gone still, her stony gaze affixed upon Feon and his gloriously ugly mask.  One of her eyes twitches.  And then she turns away, as if nothing at all is afoot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason that only heightens the humor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come,” the captain says, her voice gruff, “Let’s move on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We trail after her, our formation broken and disorderly, as we try not to laugh — with varying success.  Sir Sieglinde holds it together valiantly, her red face going redder still as she works to contain her mirth, her eyes going somewhat teary in the process.  Hazley is suppressing a grin behind one of their hands and Caederyn is turning his head to look away, his mouth pressed into a thin line to keep himself from laughing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For his part, Brennard seems entirely confused.  He looks between the lot of us with a furrowed brow and wide eyes.  “What is going </span>
  <em>
    <span>on?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he demands, his words over-enunciated.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you laughing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor and I are completely lost to our mirth.  I’d thought myself able to stop, but then the way Brennard stands there, confused, his mouth pinched into a tight little pucker, and the utter consternation in his voice — every time I try to calm myself, I find my laughter renewed, plucking at my chest and pushing at my gut.  I double over, my hands clutching at my thighs to keep myself from falling.  Connor is howling.  She places a hand on the captain’s shoulder, her entire body shaking with the force of her laughter.  Tears stream down my face, hot and salty, and my nose grows thick with congestion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon, of course, maintains his moue of haughty displeasure, though every now and then I think I see the corner of his lips twitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Laws, I think I’m dying.  I think I might die.  Oh.  Oh my!”  I take each of Feon’s clawed hands in my own and kiss them, one and then the other, the hard edges of the gemstones pressing into my lips, my head swimming with a combination of mirth and drink.  Without my hands propping myself up, I sway and stumble, Feon’s hands my only anchor.  “Thank you for this,” I wheeze.  “This beauty, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>vision.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I dissolve into another fit of giggles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate you,” Feon hisses.  He waits until I’ve calmed enough to straighten and look him in the eye.  “You are a scourge upon my heart, Allene Briallen, and one day I will see you ruined for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh, full-chested and bright, my sides aching in a distinctly satisfying way.  “Oh, Fae, don’t you go threatening me with a good time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yanks his jeweled hands back from mine and retreats a safe distance away to stew in his ire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel a gentle touch at my shoulder and turn to find Caederyn standing behind me, his mouth pulled into a small frown.  “Is everything alright?” he asks quietly.  “Is Feon treating you poorly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reach back and mingle my fingers with his.  “It’s growing pains, no more,” I reply.  “He likes me quite a bit, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Caederyn replies, his voice soft.  He squeezes my hand, but when I twist to look back at him, he is already turning away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s keep it moving, people,” Connor calls loudly over the din of the crowd.  “We’re holding up traffic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so many things to see, so many things to do.  With every few steps I feel as if I discover something, some new pocket of activity.  I cannot help but feel charmed by it all, by the laughter and the games and the drink.  Caederyn remains by my side, his arm looped through mine, his skin warm and a bit sticky.  I wonder what he might have been like, had he grown up in this Nadara and not under his father’s oppressive gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns just so and catches my eye.  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile and brush the knuckles of my free hand across his cheek.  “Nothing much.  Just thinking about how much I like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprised, he smiles, and there’s something so sweet about his face: the soft parting of his lips, the small breath that is loosed from betwixt them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From my other side, I hear a loud retching noise, and when I turn I find Feon staring at us, his face twisted beneath the dragon mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” he says, the syllable dripping with disgust.  “Solene’s tits, could the two of you be any more gross?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” I reply.  “Easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon glares at me and then throws up his hands and turns, muttering something about needing a palate cleanser after our awful display.  He stomps off into the crowd and, not wishing to be separated, we follow.  He weaves easily through the throng of people, and like waves they break around us, staggering our formation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was the first after Feon and so I follow him most closely, and I am the first to join him at the small fruit stand at which he halts.  He haggles with the vendor heatedly for a minute or so and by the time the man is filling up his basket, others have joined us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Princess,” Sir Sieglinde says, her voice a bit breathless, “There you are.”  She beams at me and then turns to survey the crowd, no doubt looking for our companions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I can speak, I see a flash of movement and find the fruit vendor dropped to one knee, his body bent forward.  “Your highness, it is an honor to have you at my stall,” he says rapidly, his voice breathless and eager.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, rise,” I say, and gesture for him to do so.  I turn from him to look at Feon, who is currently appraising each fruit in his basket one by one.  I laugh.  “Picky, aren’t we?  Well?  Did you get what you wanted, Fae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon picks out a ripe persimmon and shoulders the basket.  “Oh, fuck off,” he says, and with his free hand he gives me the bird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we turn to leave, the vendor interjects.  “You highness, if I may,” he says.  “I know you have only been in our land a short while and I fear you may not yet have had the chance to sample some of our regional delicacies.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his palms, he holds forth a fruit.  It’s roughly pomegranate-sized, perhaps a bit smaller, and its skin is a bright coquelicot red striated with deeper color, like wine or oxblood.  I take it from him and find it cool to the touch, its skin smooth and unyielding beneath my fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” I ask curiously.  “How do I eat it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a fetormelon,” the man answers.  “Here, see, where the vine has grown, there is a divot.  Press your thumbs to that spot and twist and it will break for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile and thank the man and attempt to have a distracted Feon pay him, but the vendor refuses, his eyes gleaming with pride, saying the fruit is a welcoming present, or at least what small token a simple man such as he can give for such an occasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, with Sir Sieglinde as our beacon, our group reforms.  Connor is eating some sort of colored cloud of spun sugar suspended on a stick and Caederyn is looking distinctly harried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you go?” he asks, irritation sharpening his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say quickly, knowing too well the terms of our agreement.  “When I saw Feon tear off I thought I had best follow him.  Nothing came of it.  He bought some fruit.”  I shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not — I’m not angry with you,” Caederyn says, but halts at the look I give him.  “Maybe a little, but only because I worry for you.  We walk a narrow line between power and vulnerability.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” I reply on a sigh.  I fidget with the fruit in my hands and then, deciding I could use some refreshment after all, I press my thumbs into the divot and twist as instructed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fruit tears apart easily, the halves falling away from each other as if they wish nothing more than to be separated.  The inside glistens wetly, its flesh a mottled sort of pinky-red, like raw meat or bits of brain, and at its center is a pocket of pea-sized, slick seeds.  And the whole thing reeks to high hell.  I regret my decision instantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reel back, bowled over by the bite of it, the fetid stench that is reminiscent nearly of the fallen manticore, its emaciated body too foul even for the flies.  I drop both halves of the fruit to the ground and retch, my gut heaving, though thankfully only bile surfaces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd around us parts, shrinking away from the malodor, and I would have been impressed by their ability to make space with so many pressed so close had I any room in my brain for anything more than that deep, clawing sickness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>that?” I gasp, doubled over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn has his fingers pinched over his nose and I follow suit.  In some ways, it helps, only now I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.  I lean forward to dry heave some more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a commotion nearby and I turn to see a small number of city guards rushing forward, their uniforms a bright, starched red, medals denoting their stations gleaming on their chests.  Their progress is halted only by our private guard.  Connor intercedes them, her manner easy, a lazy grin on her lips.  They exchange words.  Connor gestures back to us and then to the captain, who has come to stand at her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hazley gingerly bends down and wraps the stinking fruit in a small blanket procured from a nearby vendor.  They wind it time and time again until the stench is dissipated somewhat.  They pass the reeking bundle off to a member of the city guard and there is some brief, harried discussion before the city guards depart, the cloth held out at a distance by the youngest and greenest of their lot.  It takes some time for the smell to fade from the area. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon strides over to me, a wide grin spreading beneath the snout of his mask, and claps his hand on my shoulder.  “Congrats on your first crime!” he says cheerily.  “Well, your first Nadaran crime.  That I know of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I — what?” I ask, confused.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn joins my side and, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wipes the fruit’s juices from my thumbs.  “The fetormelon — well, you smelt it,” he says gingerly.  “It is illegal to open in public spaces.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The vendor said that it was a regional delicacy...” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it is,” Feon replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s delicious, truly, but the smell—” Caed says and waves a hand nebulously before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gradually, the crowd reforms around our party, though I think there is something of a wider berth now.  Perhaps we still smell slightly of the fruit.  I catch a number of people glancing our way, their gaze turned curious and furtive.  With the increased distance allotted us, we stand out, and not just because of the stink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Causing such a ruckus — is it not illegal to sell fetormelon?” I ask, irritated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is — frowned upon, particularly in public spaces.  But it is not illegal, no,” Caederyn answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not as if he sold it to you, anyway,” Feon chimes in, that vexing grin still spread across his face.  “It was a gift.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> I say mulishly.  I think back to that moment, to the vendor’s smile and the glimmer in his eyes: a glimmer I now recognize as mischief rather than adoration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got pranked,” Feon says.  “Big whoop.  What do you want?  Do you want me to go find that fruit man and ruin his night?  Overturn his cart, hold a claw to his throat, make him pay for the audacity of his clownery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” I reply quickly, my shoulders rising defensively.  “No, of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congrats on your initiation, Princess,” Connor says, falling in beside us.  She claps me roughly on the shoulder and I stumble.  “Welcome to Nadara.”  I wave her aside and she looses another bark of laughter before rejoining the captain at the head of our party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance at Feon and find him staring back at me, a wide grin on his lips.  “You know, if you wanted, you could... raise a real </span>
  <em>
    <span>stink</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I throw up my hands in frustration, not even knowing how to respond, but knowing I am very unhappy about all of this.  After a few moments of silent aggravation, I give it up and let my hands flop back down to my sides with an exhausted sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have stopped me, you know,” I say mulishly, glaring sidelong at Feon as we walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could have,” Feon agrees.  “Didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn towards Caederyn to voice my complaints, hoping for some modicum of sympathy, but when my eyes fall upon him I find him tight-lipped and stifling a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, not you too!” I cry, despairing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away from me, his lips twitching.  At length he says, “It’s something of a right of passage.  Think of it as a very gentle hazing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>”Pah,” I spit.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Gentle.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Still, within the minute I find myself suppressing a smile of my own.  I can only hold on to my ire for so long before I find myself laughing with the rest of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everywhere I look there is revelry: in the streets thronging with people, in the buildings all lit up and lively, on the roofs bursting with life.  Here and there, they’ve set up a number of makeshift bridges that crisscross the road from one roof to another.  People run across them, laughing, their footfalls causing the hanging lanterns affixed to the bridges to bounce and sway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch as a pair of children scamper over a nearby bridge, each gleefully brandishing a makeshift wooden sword.  I laugh, distracted, before I step directly into a pothole and stub my toe.  I stumble forward a few steps before stopping, dismayed, my right food bare and throbbing, my slipper lost in the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on,” I call out to the others, and turn back to search for my shoe.  “Just a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I move awkwardly against the tide of people, tiptoeing on one foot as I tread with the other.  Sir Sieglinde stops to wait for me and the crowd parts around her like water forked around a mountain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hell,” I mutter, spotting my fine gilt slipper, now trampled, just three paces away.  “Excuse me!” I raise my voice as I begin to push my way through the crowd.  “Pardon me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bend down to pick it up, sighing as I beat out some of the grime against my palm and then do my best to smooth away the creases in the vamp.  Pretty as they are, these shoes were made for indoors, and they’re not holding up well against the roughness of the road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I straighten and turn back and forth, looking for the rest of the group, and as I do, I feel a fat, wet droplet land on the crown of my head — and then a cascade of vegetal decay, a mass of foodstuffs gone off, turned soft and juicy and sour.  It all hits me with a sickening squelch.  I shriek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Serves you right, you Voswainian cunt.  Get the fuck out of my country, you and your Larish comrades!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A voice, loud and rough and cracking with disgust.  I turn in the direction of it and see a shadowed man standing on the bridge above me, bucket in hand, dimly illuminated by the lanterns below.  He readies a second bucket, begins tipping it towards me, and I hear screaming, shrill with surprise, and a loud snarl, and Feon bounds forward, a streak of gold growing larger every moment, until he’s in his full dragon form, beating wings and rending claws, mouth of fire, piercing eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The full weight of him collides with the makeshift bridge.  It bends, further and further, sagging under his golden body, squealing in protest at the abuse, before the whole thing snaps with a deafening shriek of metal and wood.  More screaming.  The crowd scatters.  Sir Sieglinde knocks me to the ground, her hand cupping the back of my head, her body over mine, the cobblestones hard against my back.  The world goes dark as she eclipses my vision.  A rending sound, sharp and grating, and Feon’s roar.  And then a loud thud and the ground shakes beneath me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde remains atop me.  She emanates heat.  The musk of her body, of sweat and well-maintained leather, is heavy between us, mingling with the much worse scent of produce gone rancid.  It’s all over me, on my skin, my clothing — my beautiful clothing! — and in my hair and eyes.  I retch.  Sir Sieglinde only just manages to lift off me enough so I can turn and sick up onto the cobblestones instead of on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like it takes years for my gut to settle and even longer for Sir Sieglinde to allow me to stand.  She helps me up, and her hands are big and warm, engulfing mine entirely.  She peers down at me, concerned, and asks if I’m alright, but I ignore her, my eyes seeking gold.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stare, unblinking, at the wreckage before me: the snapped bridge, the deep gouges down the fronts of the buildings on either end, the area unnaturally devoid of people, and Feon there in the center, his massive, gilt body heaving, gray-black smoke billowing from his nostrils, a man trapped under one large, taloned hand.  He growls, a low rumble in his throat, his mouth caught in a snarl, his eyes wide and wild as he stares down at the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold!” the captain calls sharply.  She strides forward, every movement imbued with purpose, the rest of our group not far behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel a heavy hand come down upon my shoulder and I flinch.  “Princess,” Sir Sieglinde begins, her voice soft and gentle, “Why don’t you stay here?  I’ll have Hazley come keep you company while we take care of this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod dumbly and watch as she calls Hazley over and then sets off to help Connor clear the street of curious onlookers — thought they can’t do anything about the people crowded into the windows and roofs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hazley approaches me with a handkerchief, waiting until I nod to gingerly to clean away the worst of the damage done to me.  My back throbs, dull and steady, and I’m thankful that Sir Sieglinde managed to shield my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes flicker back towards the scene, to where the captain is attempting to regain order.  It isn’t working.  Feon won’t transform back, seems unable or unwilling to hear her commands.  His golden eyes are so wide I can see the whites all the way around and his pupils are shrunk to tiny needles.  The man held in his talons isn’t moving and I don’t know if he is dead or merely unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then all of a sudden Feon is doing it, he’s changing, his body shrinking down and growing human: a body of brilliant golden scales that goes dull and soft at the very end.  He’s still wearing that thin, gauzy, golden thing, but the leggings and sash are gone, the mask nowhere to be seen, leaving his body ill-concealed as the diaphanous material flutters about him at the whim of the wind.  Caederyn stands at his other side, his hand on Feon’s shoulder, his dark head bent forward, his face gone white as a sheet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Princess,” Hazley says, and I startle.  Turn.  Look down at them.  “We’re going to take you home now.  Back to the palace.”  They rest a hand on my forearm.  “Will you come with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, again, and Hazley and Sir Sieglinde and I separate from the rest of the group as they stay to do... my mind stops there.  They’re doing whatever they’re doing, and I’m — I can’t.  I’m numb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon peels off from the others at the last minute and pelts forward, his body barely concealed by the flowing fabric.  I’m confused, I think, but I can’t quite feel it.  Not yet.  I don’t know how long it takes us to get back to our carriage, but Sir Sieglinde makes it simple.  She parts the crowd easily and we follow in her wake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Feon and I are seated in the carriage, Hazley in the driver’s box and Sir Sieglinde on the back, the Shiftweave has assumed a more practical form.  I stare, not at him, but at the tunic, until it all blurs together and nothing looks real anymore.  He shifts, his arms crossing over his chest.  The stench of my body fills the compartment, cloying and foul, the sourness edged with a sickly sort of sweetness.  I have to open the window and lean my head out to not vomit again.  The taste of bile is sharp on my tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The journey back to Pyrehart Palace could have taken minutes, could have taken years.  By the time we arrive, the sky is just taking on the first color of the day, the sun not yet risen, the revelry not yet ended.  Sir Sieglinde covers me with her coat and together the three of them ferry me discretely back into my chambers.  The rooms wait, dark and empty, either too late or too early for my ladies to fill them with light and conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Sieglinde and Hazley leave me at the door, but Feon follows me in wordlessly.  If they have opinions about that, they don’t show it, and when Sir Sieglinde asks if she should send for a servant to help me bathe, I decline with a shake of my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, it is Feon who helps me, his eyes fierce as he fills the tub and paces the bathroom, never quite looking at me as I strip desultorily, too exhausted and out of sorts to feel any sort of way about the surroundings or my nakedness.  I rinse first, lathering my hair and skin and scrubbing fiercely as Feon stands by with a pitcher of hot water, refilling it periodically until the worst of the fetid juice is out.  I still feel disgusting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I climb over the lip of the tub and sink down into the steaming water with a grateful sigh.  I submerge myself completely and stay there, breath held and eyes closed, the water pressing in at my ears, until my lungs burn in protest and something in my gut loosens.  When I surface, I find Feon sitting on the small stool beside the tub, his shoulders hunched, his head turned away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lay my hands on the lip of the tub, one crossed over the other, and then rest my chin upon them.  I watch him, quiet and waiting, my hair a long, wet tangle that drips down my shoulders and splays wide over the water’s surface.  At length, Feon turns his head — just a fraction, just enough to surreptitiously glance over his shoulder.  I catch his gaze.  I hold it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After what feels like eons, he speaks.  “Are you...”  He stops.  Looks away.  Exhales through his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exhausted?” I ask.  “Yes.  In shock?  Sort of, it comes and goes, but the water is helping.  Being clean helps.  Being here — in my own space, in private — helps.”  I don’t know when I started to think of this space as </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it is, undoubtedly, and doubly so now I’ve said it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon glares at me.  “No — I mean — are you... are you alright?”  His words come out in hot little faltering puffs, angry and uncertain and so very charming I am stricken by it, by him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel wobbly all over.  I smile at him, helpless against his unexpected softness.  I reach forward and cup his face with my wet hands.  He only grimaces a little.  “I’m alright, Feon.”  I lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek.  “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I drop my hands, cross them back under my chin.  He’s staring at me now, chewing on his bottom lip, still hunched over, his shoulders nearly up to his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m strong, you know,” I continue.  “I’m a hardened criminal.  Tough, gruff, and in the buff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You — what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile.  “I’m a melon felon, wanted all across Tir Lua for my fruit crimes and dastardly good looks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon shoots up to his feet, heat in his eyes and a scowl on his lips, and turns to go.  “Obviously you’re fine now, so I’m gonna—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch his hand, just barely, my hands slippery and ill-equipped for holding on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” I say quickly.  “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes still, his back to me.  His hand is hot to the touch.  He doesn’t speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay with me,” I whisper, my voice like so much earth crumbling away, strong until it isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He nods, just the slightest jerk of his chin, and I relax.  I let his hand slide free and sink back into the tub, tilting my head back as I float, all the softest parts of me cresting the water’s surface.  I close my eyes.  Scrub at my face.  Sit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon is still there, standing silently at the head of the tub.  He jerks his chin towards the nearby table covered in neatly arranged jars.  “D’you need help?” he asks, the words clipped, his voice rough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn my head and wait until our eyes meet over the curve of my shoulder.  “Need?  No, I don’t think so... But I’d like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s liberal with the stuff, with the herby soaps and fragrant oils.  He’s not good at it.  His fingers snag in my hair time and again — but he’s trying.  Trying to help, trying to be gentle.  I can tell by the uncertainty in his movements.  By the end of it all, the sun is peeking over the horizon and he has grown marginally better with his ministrations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand, exhausted, the now-lukewarm water streaming off my body like a sudden shower.  I finger comb more oils through my hair, squeeze out the excess water, and bundle my hair up in a smooth-fibered towel.  I’ll have to wear my hair up for the next few days, but it was too disgusting not to wash it and I’m too tired to dry it now, tired to the bone, to the aching orbits of my eyes.  I dry off, find my robe, pull it on and sash it at my waist.  Feon waits, hovering between me and the door, his posture unnaturally stiff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I pass him to cross into my room, he speaks up.  “So that’s, uhm, got you all sorted now.  I’ll see you to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feon,” I interject.  ”Stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s all it takes.  His tunic turns soft and loose.  I forgot that all this time he hasn’t been wearing any trousers — or much else besides.  We climb into bed together, too awkward for this to feel natural, too exhausted to change our minds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We lay close to each other, not quite touching, the space between us mingling his breath and mine.  He looks so very soft.  I reach for him, find his hands, take them in mine, and raise them, pressing his knuckles to my lips, first the left and then the right</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” I whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales long and low, his warm breath ghosting over our joined hands, over my cheeks.  Slowly, tentatively, his hands shift, ‘til I’m no longer holding them, my fingers cupped under his, and instead his fingers lace with mine, finger to finger to finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile, just a bit, and though he won’t meet my gaze, I catch an answering quirk to his lips.  It’s not much, but it’s enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next day I’m downstairs at the post-Soluna brunch — more of a lunch, really, but I respect the vibe.  Many of the servants have been given the day off to recoup and so the food options stand thusly: either pick from the buffet of pre-prepared foodstuffs on offer in the ballroom or fend for yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ballroom is busy but in an unhurried, dull sort of way, full up with scattered groups of bedraggled of people and no shortage of stragglers, most of them with the haggard eyes of the profoundly hungover.  I’m not doing so well myself.  I’m standing idly at the buffet, blinking away my tiredness and trying to remember what I was doing, when Lysithea bursts in and throws her arms around my neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allene!” she exclaims.  “Princess of my heart, dearest and most cherished friend, I cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you were so cruelly and viciously </span>
  <em>
    <span>attacked,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and in my name!  What malevolent cretin, what depraved soul could possibly wish to harm </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lysithea,” I manage to choke out.  “You’re strangling me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She loosens her grip immediately, but one of her arms remains hooked around the back of my neck.  “Sorry, sorry.  I simply can’t help the </span>
  <em>
    <span>flood</span>
  </em>
  <span> of </span>
  <em>
    <span>emotions</span>
  </em>
  <span> that comes roaring to the surface when I discover that my dear, dear friend has been maligned — has been </span>
  <em>
    <span>put into harm’s way.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She’s speaking very, very loudly, something that does not at all agree with my growing headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” I reply irritably and wave a hand at her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fill my plate at random and rejoin Feon at our table.  It’s just us two — I think Fidelity and Clemence are still avoiding me, which stings, but I suppose I deserve it.  I still haven’t told Feon.  His eyes track us the whole way, me with my plate and glass and Lysithea at my elbow, a never-ending deluge of words spewing from her mouth.  She takes the seat beside mine without hesitation and for a moment it’s awkward — just me and her and Feon, and them not quite looking each other in the eye, and I exhale a long, tired sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, really,” I insist.  “The man wasn’t a danger — not really, I don’t think, or at least he didn’t have the chance to become one, not when this one nearly pulverized him.”  I gesture towards Feon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lysithea stares him down, her mouth puckering tight, and for a moment I think she is getting ready to berate him, but then she grabs his hands and holds them.  Feon flinches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Lysithea says, her voice a breath, low and quick and painfully earnest.  “I thought you were useless before.  I was wrong.  I see your value now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please let go of me,” Feon says uncomfortably, and I don’t know what’s weirder — that he’s being so quiet or that he’s used the word “please.”  I didn’t believe it to be in his vocabulary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lysithea drops his hands and straightens with an aggrieved sniff.  “Whatever,” she says, picking up my glass of water and stealing a sip, and that’s it.  That single word is a wall and even if they aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking at each other, they never seem to meet eye-to-eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m saved from trying to salvage the conversation by the arrival of Caederyn.  He’s like a storm today.  He strides into the room, the large double doors thudding loudly as they shut behind him.  He glances this way and that, brushing off any who attempt to waylay him, until his gaze rests upon me and he’s turning, pushing past his people until he’s beside me.  He drops to a knee at my side.  He doesn’t look like he’s slept much, but I guess I could say that about all of us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allene,” he says gravely.  “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For about the hundredth time, I find myself saying, “I’m fine, really, I’m totally fine.  It’s was a shock, yes — I’ve never been assaulted by a man with a compost bin before and I’m not looking to repeat the experience — but it’s not as if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn takes my hand and stares up at me, and he’s immovable like this, unreachable, unable to chart a new course until he’s fully sailed this one.  “I want you to know that we take this sort of incident very seriously.  He accosted you.  He could have done worse.  We found a dagger on his belt.  He was reckless and he’d been drinking.  He might have hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lay my hands upon my dear prince’s shoulders and stare down at him, unflinching, until some small part of him shakes free from this fervor.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caed.  My prince.  My dear future husband.”  Lysithea clicks her tongue but I ignore it.  “Most everyone carries a dagger on them.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>even have one, though Laws help us if I ever need to use it to slay anything greater than an envelope.  You are very worried for me and I appreciate that, but you are being silly and a little bit terrifying right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A frown pulls at his lips, creases his brow, and finally I think I have him.  “I should probably have him released soon, shouldn’t I,” he says, voice quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, obviously!” I reply, finally releasing him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“How long</span>
  </em>
  <span> were you planning to hold him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away.  “Just until we were certain he didn’t pose a threat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caed.  The man threw a bucket of old vegetables at me.  I don’t think he’s much of a threat to anyone.  If he’d wanted to hurt me — well, the bucket would have been more effective than its contents.”  I sigh.  “Listen, if you feel you need to see him punished, have him do cleaning rounds for the festival.  Put him in the stocks, see how he likes being pummeled with rotten fruit.  I don’t care.  Just — let him go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” he says.  He rests a hand on my knee for a moment — an apology, I think — and then he rises.  “I’ll go speak with the captain and see he gets released soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck you will!”  A chair scrapes loudly against the floor and Lysithea is up on her feet.  “What if he’s part of something larger — the foam on a toxic wave of xenophobic violence?  I see how you look at me, how everyone here looks at me.  How long until it’s more than produce?  ‘Til it’s a dagger in the back or poison in my cup?  In hers?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She speaks the same as always — her voice loud and with that flair for the dramatic.  But the words are different: no less hyperbolic, and yet somehow much more sincere.  If there’s some joke to be heard, I’ve missed it entirely, and no one here is laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lysithea,” I say, rising to my feet and raising my hands to placate her.  “It’s alright.  There’s no need to be so afraid.  Nothing much happened and I think that — if dealt with properly, if not exacerbated — the situation need not escalate.  I truly believe that.  But if we answer this with undue force?  Then they’ve a real grievance with us and that sort of resentment festers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve already got their grievances from history,” Lysithea spits.  She turns back to Caederyn and stares him down, fury building like a pyre within her.  “And you — you take our land and lay low our sacred soma and you bid us to be civil, to accept the hostility as hospitality, to forget the harms done against us, and to watch as you excuse your rampant nationalism as no more than drunken folly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your future bride was </span>
  <em>
    <span>attacked.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She is no common Voswainian, no simple, bumbling foreigner dragged here on a whim.  Her identity is the severity of the crime, not the action taken.  And you would not uproot this weed of hatred, but allow it to cultivate itself, to grow and gorge itself on your benevolence until its roots are sunk deep into the heart of your land, until it is so thoroughly ensnarled that you cannot clear the roots without destroying the loam that fosters them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hall is utterly silent, not a single sound made save for the heaving of Lysithea’s chest as she gulps in air.  I do not think I can hope that we were not overheard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lysithea—” I begin again, quieter this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” she says, her voice sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t want that, of course we don’t — nobody wants to start a war — but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lysithea just stands there and stares me down until the words stop.  I bite my lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will bring your concerns to the captain,” Caederyn says, his voice a rasp.  He’s looking at Lysithea like — I don’t know.  His face is strange, anxious but somehow solid, like a lighthouse waiting for a ship too long at sea.  And there’s something else.  An understanding, I think, though not a happy one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lysithea nods at him curtly and breaks away from our group without another word.  She scarcely even spares a glance for me.  I’ve never been on the receiving end of her ire — not like this.  I find I mislike it immensely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caederyn exhales a shuddering sigh and presses a hand to his brow.  “I had better go keep my word,” he says, not even looking at me.  “I’m glad you’re doing well.”  He stands, leans in, presses a distracted kiss to my cheek, and he’s gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feon and I remain in silence, him sitting and me standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that was some fucking shit,” he says at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I reply.  “It really was.  Are you still hungry?”  He shakes his head.  “Me neither.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anxiety plucks at my heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of, uhm, as you put it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.  That.  I may have, er.  Last night I may have accidentally let slip to Fidelity and Clemence about your — your other self.  Your disguise.  I didn’t mean to.  I was rather drunk.  I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence reigns at our table — and it is only because of that that I notice the slow rise of furtive conversation accumulating like so much rainwater in the ballroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“YOU </span>
  <em>
    <span>WHAT?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Before One of Us Bleeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>once again, i'd like to provide a content warning for self harm! it is not super explicitly described, but it is there.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    
  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bernat Vytautas.That is the name of Allene’s attacker.He’s a short man, round-faced, his hair cropped close to his skull, ears too big for his head.He spent the night in confinement sleeping off his drunkenness on a simple cot.He’s agreeable enough, or so the captain tells me — well-behaved in his cell, compliant with questioning, affable with the guards, reasonable once he finished sicking up in the corner bucket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s a family man, a fix-it-all, good for all sorts of odd repair work down in the bowl of Soliss’ valley.Upon inquiry, those in the community swear up and down that he’s a good man, well-liked, sturdy and dependable (if a bit fond of the drink): the last person to give up on a friend in need, the first person out of the tavern when a cart breaks down in the road. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His act during the festival came as a shock to his friends and family, who all express profusely that such behavior is utterly out of character.It was a mistake, a moment of drunken foolishness, to which he thoroughly attests.He’d lost family in the Battle of Ash, but, well, who hadn’t?The guards speak to the man’s seeming contrition — or at least to his immense embarrassment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And yet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard’s words hound me, nipping at my heels and my heart.There were many inebriated souls amongst us at last night’s festival, but only one of them saw fit to assault their future queen.I think I would have felt more at ease had he not been beloved by his community, if he had proved himself nasty or cruel or in some other way outwardly hateful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">How do you truly learn the heart of a man or the reasons for his behavior?Perhaps he is harmless as so many seem to think.I’d like to think that true.But I can’t know for certain.Does the testimony of his fellows speak to his innocence or rather to something darker, some malignity burrowed deep in the heart of my home?I don’t know what to do. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so I take the coward’s way out: I defer judgement to Captain Elske.She handles the matter with her customary acerbity.I can tell by the tightness in her face that she must be disappointed with me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bernat Vytautas is put to the stocks in the marketplace the next morning and then sentenced to a week of community service.I don’t know if it is the right thing: if it is enough, if it is too much; if it will deter such behavior; if it will fester resentment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find myself pocked by uncertainty.The world seems different, somehow: so mundane and yet alien, the faces of familiar folk turned odd and uncanny.They watch me.I’ve known it, always, and yet this day the realization of it strikes me anew.They look to me with deference, with expectation, with judgement.To them, I am the obelisk: upright and ever visible, the precedent, a pillar by which to measure themselves.And I have found myself wanting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What have I done but stew in my own paranoia and hatred?I have sheltered my bias, like a fire from the rain, determinedly ignoring Allene’s pleas for concord.How can I blame my people for mirroring my own deficiency?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Prince Caederyn,” Jasper says, his soft voice cutting through my thoughts, “I think perhaps it might be best if you rested.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wave him aside distractedly.“Later.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In truth, I did not sleep at all the previous night — I attempted to, I really did, laying awake in bed as morning broke overhead.But it was no use.Despite my best efforts, my brain continued to spin out its thoughts independent of my will. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I should have known better than to disregard my father’s wisdom.Had I not allowed the excursion, Allene need never have been accosted.We could have greeted the sunrise together as we should have.Instead, dawn came upon me whilst I was still sorting out things in town, with the captain and an array of city guards and a bitter drunkard, and without Allene at my side.I’ve never paid much heed to the amorous superstitions surrounding the first light of Soluna, but it was dispiriting nonetheless.I eventually gave up my attempts at slumber and took to my desk so I could at least spend the hours before Allene’s waking productively.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I come to my parents’ door and Jasper halts me once more.“Your grace, whatever you mean to say to them, it can wait until tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It can,” I agree, “But it shouldn’t.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod to the guard stationed outside and he raps smartly upon the door.It opens and a royal attendant greets me graciously and bows me in.I enter, dismissing Jasper at the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What business, your grace?” the attendant asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to speak with my father,” I reply.“Is he in?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He is in his office.I shall alert him.May I get you some refreshment as you wait, your grace?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I decline and take a seat in my parents’ sitting room.The room is as it ever is, a space in stasis: the dark wood furnishings, the fireplace lit even in the heart of summer, the elegantly displayed collection of finery.From atop the mantel, my parents’ portrait presides over the room: the king and queen in their youth and Yuen at their side.They look so composed, so sure, filled with a dignity I can only aim to imitate.I try not to fidget.I wait.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some minutes later, the attendant returns.Bowing once more, he says, “The king will see you now.”I rise.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find my father ensconced behind his tomb of a desk, a scroll weighted flat before him.His face is cast in shadow, obscured by the bright light of the window that sits behind him, its golden curtains pulled open to let in the late afternoon sun.He doesn’t look up when I enter, merely gestures for me to take a seat before him.I do so, sinking down into an old armchair so deep it threatens to swallow me whole. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I always feel small in his office.Perhaps it’s the way the entire room is arranged with my father at its heart, every furnishing bowing to him as if he is the center of gravity.Perhaps it’s the dark-paneled walls and ceiling that cow me in, so stark against the brightness of the window, the wood all polished to a shine.Perhaps it’s the solid mass of built-in shelves, each populated meticulously with books, ancient and new, and with much else besides: an elegantly carved stone bust of a beautiful woman, her face open and quiet; a curved ivory tooth, etched delicately with gold leaf, more than a handspan in length; a necklace of slickly shimmering scales, like slivers of starlight made material; a set of small, crystalline vials, each filled with some mercurial liquid.Trophies of a heroic youth; boons of a successful kingship; accomplishments made material.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At last, Father sets down his quill and raises his gaze to mine.Without preamble, he leans back in his throne of a chair and gestures for me to speak.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Father,” I begin, dismayed at the quaver in my voice.I clear my throat and begin again.“Father, I am certain you have been made aware of the — the incident last night.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have,” he replies.That the assault only occurred due to my defiance of his will sits between us, heavy and unsaid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Its wake has sparked reflection within me.”I hesitate.Wet my lips.Study his face and find it as inscrutable as ever.“Our land is an insular one.We take pride in our traditions and our resources and we guard them jealously.We do not take kindly to outside influence, whether political or technological.We cultivate our grudges with care, let them bloom as their roots make trenches of our hearts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My father listens quietly, never once moving, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly upon my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not know if it is wise,” I finish, the words choked out past the lump in my throat.“I worry that our caution may prove a detriment to the prolonging of peace.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My father is silent for a long time, so long that my legs go jittery with the need to move them, to fidget, to get up, to do anything but sit still and wait.“You have a gentle heart,” he says eventually, and his voice is so cool, so even, that I can’t tell if this is meant as a compliment or an insult.“It is a testament to the era at hand, to the peace we have sustained, that the world has allowed this softness within you.”I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.“It is a good thing, Caederyn.It means I have performed this role well, that the world has been kinder in your youth than it was in mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you agree, then?” I ask, leaning forward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shakes his head.“No, I do not.”He looks back at me soberly — almost sadly — and exhales a long sigh.“Would that I could trust whatever overtures of peace the young Ballard woman has made to you; certainly her parent has made their fair share to me.But understand this: it is one thing to let a viper into your home, to keep it comfortable and fed, all while you have it locked safely behind glass; it is another thing entirely to allow that viper free range within your home, to grow complacent and brazen, forgetting entirely the venom it bears.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sit back.I frown.“And if… if the viper escapes and we had not taken the chance to — to, hmm, gather its venom to form an antidote?”I cringe inwardly at my inelegant handling of the comparison.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let us abandon the analogy,” my father replies with a wave of his hand.“Halwynn Ballard will promise peace with one cheek and sow war with the other.Have you never noticed that their parliament affords them far too much freedom?Ballard is an ambassador in title, but to <em>where?</em>They travel as they please, not beholden to relations with any one land.”The king shakes his head, his lips pulling tight, his face souring. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They are a relic of an old, dying faith: too venerated to dismiss from duty, too pernicious to be allowed a seat in parliament.They are a rook coated in acid: fundamental to the mechanics of the game, but too toxic to touch.I’m certain their council had all manner of multitudinous motivations behind their proposal and I am more certain still that Ambassador Ballard has found a way to twist that motivation towards whatever insidious goal they seek.”The king’s eyes are set like stone.“In a way, I know Halwynn Ballard intimately.War does that.You learn much about a soul by how they barter with the lives of others.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But Lady Ballard—” I begin, but he cuts me off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is a child,” my father says sharply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She is my age, or thereabouts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My father looks at me, then — really looks at me, with an unsettling keenness, his eyes dark and dispassionate, almost pitying.“Caederyn, I know you are a man grown, but you seem so very young to me.I will not always be here to play the fist to your open hand.To rule a land, to care for a people, it requires that you look past your idealism.You must be firm, sometimes even cruel.You must draw boundaries and keep them.Your life will never truly be your own, not once you replace me as king.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I came into my reign unexpectedly.My predecessor died young — younger even than is expected for Solene’s line.My only wish as your father has been to pass you a torch that burns bright and strong and steady, and to give you the tools to maintain it, to give you a gentler succession than I had.”He leans forward until his forearms rest on the surface of his desk, his hands clasped before him, and he looks… old.Still dignified, still handsome, his skin as smooth as marble, but old nonetheless.Old and tired, like the rocks on a cliffside weathered by centuries of storms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would love nothing more than for the world to be as kind as you think it is.If I could make it so, I would, for you and for all my people.But to put trust in that kindness would be to gamble with far too many lives and that is not something I am willing to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leave my father feeling wrong, somehow.Like I’m walking sideways or my head has been put on backwards.Afterwards, I realize that this is the most my father and I have spoken in years — though he did most of the talking.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes me two days before I finally confide to Allene the contents of my meetings with my father.I find her preoccupied in her tower pouring over yet another old tome, though I can tell her heart isn’t really in it by the cant of her body as she leans heavily upon her elbow.She’s been distracted of late and though she says it isn’t due to the assault, I can’t think what else could possibly have affected her so.She’s alone, which is strange, but nevertheless convenient for my purposes.I take a seat in one of the plush armchairs and recount the conversation to her.Afterwards, she looks thoughtful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m glad you spoke with him,” she says.With a decisive <em>thunk,</em> she shuts her book and then turns her chair to face me.“And I’m sorry he didn’t listen.You know how much I’ve longed to foster a better friendship between the two of you — between you and Lysithea and your countries besides.You’re alike in some ways, you know.”I splutter my dissension, but she raises a hand to silence me.“No, listen, hear me out: you’ve both been taught you can’t afford to express the gentleness in your hearts.You manifest it differently, of course, but I see it in the both of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That doesn’t seem like a particularly sound foundation for friendship,” I reply.“Perhaps for an understanding, but—”Allene leans forward and pinches my thigh just above the knee, right through the trousers.“Ow!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re overthinking this,” she says testily.“It’s a first step, and at this point that is blessing enough.Now, quit fretting and let me help you circumvent your blasted country’s determination to sow mistrust down its eastern border.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And that is how I end up at a small dinner gathering with Allene, her ladies, Feon, and the Ballards.It is, in a word, awkward.We’re all sat together at a modestly-sized round table in one of the smaller lounges on the first floor.Allene decided that in the spirit of being more welcoming and less hermetic, it was best our usual seating arrangement be disrupted.She has, quite conspicuously, sandwiched Lady Ballard between the two of us.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Servants bustle in and out of the room, first bringing out dishes of scented water and soft, warm towels to cleanse our hands before they then proceed to fill our glasses with a sweet plum wine.From across Lady Ballard’s body, Allene leans forward and raises her eyebrows at me meaningfully.I shift uncomfortably in my seat.I hesitate.I clear my throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you all for — for joining me, for joining <em>us,</em> particularly at such short notice.I know this meal is — that this configuration is — well, that this all is a bit strange.”Lady Ballard looses a low snort, but she doesn’t interrupt other than that.That’s progress, isn’t it? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not certain what Allene has shared, but as of late I’ve felt the need to — to reconsider certain things.”A servant steps in to slide a small plate of sambharo salad before me.I take a hasty breath and then before I can think better of it, I swivel in my seat to face Lady Ballard directly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Ballard, I wanted to thank you in particular,” I continue.“Your critique of — of, well, me.”I stop.Breathe.“I want you to know that I have taken it to heart and that I am examining my role in setting the precedent for — in enabling the, err—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The rampant nationalism alive and thriving in Nadara?” Lady Ballard suggests, her head tilted back slightly, chin raised.Her eyes are fixed upon me, appraising, one brow arched.She doesn’t look impressed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, though, err, I hope it is not quite so bad as you say,” I reply.“As much as I am able, I would like to do my part to not inherit the enmity of our parents.”Here, I glance away from her, my eyes inevitably falling upon the face of Halwynn Ballard, who sits at Allene’s other side.As we are seated, I have the better view of the smooth half of their face, but as they turn to rest their attention upon me, I see them: the puckered lines of old pain, ropes of scar tissue woven over the right half of their face like a lattice of grief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you intend to advocate for our petition to the crown, then?” Ambassador Ballard asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Regretfully, no,” I reply.“I had hoped to — to at least reexamine it, to see what terms, if any, could be amenable to building something other than hostility between our lands.”Every set of eyes rests upon me and though there are so few of them in this room, I can feel my palms growing warm with sweat regardless.“But it seems my father is set in his position.I am hopeful that in the future I may be able to sway him somewhat, but I do not think my efforts will bear fruit in this particular venture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pity,” the ambassador replies, though they don’t seem surprised.“It would have been such a fortuitous opportunity for both our lands.Do you know what the widespread use of refrigerants can do for a people?Without even taking into consideration the cost in coin and labor for the maintenance of mundane ice houses, it makes the longterm keeping of food so much more accessible to the populace.Think of all the meat that has to be cured so that it doesn’t turn rancid and all the wood and coal that consumes, all the dairy that goes sour and all the produce that goes to waste unless pickled.Think of all the <em>people</em> who could be kept fed — and fed well — with this gift.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bite my lip.“I am well aware,” I reply, “And I argued as much myself, as did others — the Master of the Pantry in particular.But whatever mistrust exists between you and my father lays too thick to be abated by such an offer.He said so himself: he cited you, in particular, as a reason for his refusal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard picks disinterestedly at a grated slice of spiced carrot.“This is why negotiating with a monarchy is such a hassle,” she grouses.“It doesn’t matter that you’re able to hear the sense in our offer or that a good number of those in your father’s council found the terms agreeable.In the end, the king makes a unilateral decision regardless of the wishes of his people.His grudge bears more weight than the lives of others.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not to, like, offend anyone here — some of my best friends are in the line of succession for one crown or another—”Here, her eyes dart towards Allene, who rolls her eyes and slaps Lady Ballard gently on the shoulder.“—But it sort of seems like a terrible system of governance with no real accountability for its leadership.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Someone</em> woke up on the seditious side of the bed,” Allene teases, hiding a chortle behind her wine glass.She must be used to such talk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard fixes me with her too-bright stare.“Prince Caederyn, will you see me castigated for my <em>highly contentious</em> and <em>foreign</em> political views?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, “But I wouldn’t recommend voicing them to others outside of this room, particularly not in the palace.”I look away from her, hiding my discomfort by feigning sudden interest in the roasted, curried cauliflower being brought out.It’s not difficult.It smells delicious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Clemence speaks up then: “Regardless, it’s not as if a parliament is infallible, either.People can be bought and sold no matter their wealth or station and with that many minds, that many motives, it all gets rather messy, in my opinion.Sometimes you need a central figure, one sovereign or one worthy mind, to be decisive when no consensus can be found.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Besides,” Allene begins, picking up on Lady Clemence’s trajectory, “It’s not as if there are <em>no</em> repercussions, no fall out.Accountability may be somewhat limited, but in Voswain the monarch is beholden to its council, which in turn is overseen by our arcane arbiters.No one, queen or otherwise, is above the Briar Laws and none have managed to thwart them without suffering a swift deposition.So, you see, it’s a balancing act — the throne and the council must compromise as needed and the arbiters ensure that any compromise is just.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Halwynn Ballard nods their head respectfully.“An interesting system, to be certain, and one that seems to have served you well.”They glance towards me.“But Nadara has no such system, unless I am mistaken.And with the, how should I put it, the lack of options at hand where a sovereign is concerned...”They smile.“Well, it’s not as if just anyone can form a draconic Bond that spans generations.It’s a very powerful card to hold.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We lapse into a strained silence.I glance around the table: Lady Fidelity to my left, sitting rigidly as Feon picks disinterestedly at his food beside her; Lady Clemence sipping at her wine, her face as serene as the sand dunes; Lady Ballard and Allene engaged in some sort of silent conversation carried out entirely with their eyebrows; and Halwynn Ballard, sitting poised and relaxed, their dark eyes studying me, the corner of their mouth tugged ever so slightly into a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me, you grace,” Ambassador Ballard says, “Do you know when your father plans to relinquish the throne?You’re nearing thirty, are you not?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m twenty-six,” I reply stiffly.The hair on the back of my neck prickles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, of course.But my question stands: have you spoken of this with your father?” they ask.“It seems like a matter you should have discussed at some point.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Those of my line do not typically live long enough that the succession is a point of contention,” I reply warily.“As such, to my knowledge, we’ve never had a monarch outstay their welcome.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ambassador Ballard nods their head deferentially.“I apologize, your grace, for my unintended lack of tact,” they reply, utterly unruffled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As my gaze leaves theirs, I find Allene staring at me, wide-eyed, her mouth held open in a small “o.”<em>“Caederyn,” </em>she breathes, “What do you mean <em>‘none of them live long enough?’”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I purse my lips uncomfortably.“It’s nothing—” I begin, but she cuts me off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Nothing’ my—”Allene sucks in a deep breath and closes her eyes.Her lips move silently, mouthing a count to five in Voswainian, before she opens her eyes to behold me once more.“Is that why your mother..?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I reply, “No, that is something else besides.I do not mean that my line is sickly, though of course there is Mother...”I shake my head.“Solene died in childbirth, as you know.And Queen Waldresta — my grandmother — she died in battle before I was born.She must have been near my father’s age, perhaps a bit younger.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Here, I glance towards Feon, although I do not mean to.He’s watching me, his face uncharacteristically solemn, his eyes glittering and bright.I look away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There are many hazards to ruling and with our history so turbulent and our line so narrow — one successor and one only — it manifests more obviously than it would otherwise.It is a strange happening of coincidence and naught more than that.”I shrug.“I do not intend to follow the trend.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can’t simply—” Allene begins, her voice rising with emotion, but she stops herself mid-sentence and pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs once more.“No, you know what, this is <em>not</em> the time for this conversation, but we <em>will</em> be speaking of this later.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod my head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To my left, Lady Fidelity sneezes loudly and without warning, making the lot of us jump.“Sorry!” she says, her face all red and eyes gone watery.“Sorry!”She hastily wipes at her nose with a kerchief before subsiding into an embarrassed silence.Lady Ballard gives a low chortle.It almost manages to ease the tension — almost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So!” Allene begins, her voice fluttery with forced enthusiasm, “Perhaps now is not the time for further discussion of politics.I did intend this to be a <em>social</em> gathering, though I suppose a certain measure of this was necessary to facilitate this meeting at all.Why don’t we all get to know each other better, hmm?Let’s see, when I initiated my lady’s tea parties, we had great luck with the introductory stories...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard snorts and throws her head back.“Sorry, Allene, but unlike the <em>rest</em> of you plebeians, I happen to live a life of dignity and grace — one that is utterly devoid of shame.I have exactly <em>one</em> embarrassing story and I have already used it up for your tea party.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs, though whether it’s at Lady Ballard’s dramatics or the idea of being called a <em>plebeian </em>for probably the first time in her life, I’m not certain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re right about one thing, Lysithea,” Feon says, “You <em>are</em> absolutely shameless.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” she replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It wasn’t a compliment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And so once again you demonstrate the limitations of both your intellect <em>and</em> your taste.”Lady Ballard heaves an exaggerated sigh and looks up to the ceiling.“How sad it must be to have wyrms for brains!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Fidelity snorts loudly and drops her fork.Red-faced, she hastily ducks down under the table to retrieve it.Feon doesn’t look amused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” he says, inflectionless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, <em>wyrms,”</em> Lady Ballard replies.“With a ‘y.’”She grins and holds up her hands to her head, pointer fingers extended, to form a set of horns.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That doesn’t even make <em>sense,”</em> he grouses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s because you’re a dragon,” Lady Ballard replies, sounding inordinately pleased with herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I got that bit,” Feon replies.“But I don’t have wyrms <em>in my brain.</em>That would be, like, super weird.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lady Ballard’s eyes go wide and she presses a hand to her chest in mock indignation.“Well, how should <em>I</em> know that?I have better things to do that study dragon biology.You’re not my type, anyway.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon heaves an aggrieved sigh.“Flame and ruin, if you’re going to insult me, at least <em>try</em> to be funny.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene coughs delicately into her hand and says, “Well, it <em>was</em> a bit funny.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it wasn’t,” Feon replies, glaring at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Excuse you!” Lady Ballard exclaims, her eyes on Allene.“It was <em>extremely</em> funny.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A faint <em>thud</em> sounds from my left, accompanied by a muffled, “Butter and biscuits!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turn to see Lady Fidelity emerging from under the table, her face red, one hand clutching her fork and the other holding her head.Feon watches her, his body leaned slightly away, hands hovering in the air as if uncertain if he should try to help her.Lady Fidelity looks back at him, her body still, her mouth pulling into a small, stubborn frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was a little bit funny,” she says after a moment, her voice barely more than a whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene clears her throat.“Anyway, Lysithea, even if <em>you</em> haven’t a story to tell, that doesn’t mean it’s not still a good idea.”She tosses her hair over one shoulder and fixes her gaze upon Feon.“For instance — Feon — I never did get to hear <em>your</em> embarrassing story, what with the whole bird—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shoots her a panicked look and Allene freezes.Lady Fidelity has gone very still.Lady Clemence seems as unperturbed as ever.Ambassador Ballard is watching with a twinkle of amusement in their dark eyes.Lady Ballard looks confused — a feeling I share.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene hurriedly waves her hand before herself.“It’s nothing, really,” she says, too loudly to be entirely casual.“You see, I thought I’d best get to know Feon considering this whole <em>marriage</em> thing.”She winks at me.“And I’d just managed to cajole him into cooperation when a great, big wild turkey burst out of the woods around the palace and began to harass us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It chased Allene up a tree before I killed it,” Feon says, grinning.I frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Only because you <em>let</em> it,” she replies with a scowl.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It all looks very natural — Allene’s embarrassed indignation, Feon’s smug smile.And yet it’s the first I’ve heard of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does that happen often?” Lady Ballard asks, twirling a lock of her silver hair about her finger.“Wild turkeys on the grounds, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not unheard of,” I reply.Allene relaxes in her chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Allene, I can’t believe you were chased up a tree by a <em>bird!”</em> Lady Ballard cackles gleefully.“Well, there you go!There’s your embarrassing story for the day.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To everyone’s surprise, it is Ambassador Ballard who speaks up next.“I happen to remember a certain five-year-old who ran to me, wailing, as a flock of wild geese chased her away from their lake.”They sit with their wine glass to their lips, eyes staring somewhere ahead of themselves, a small smile softening their mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow,” Allene says, her eyes gleaming.“Now, isn’t <em>that</em> something?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have <em>betrayed</em> me, Zaza,” Lady Ballard laments.She glares around the table at each of us.“You have me at an unfair disadvantage — none of <em>you</em> have parents present.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry, Goose Girl, I’ll make sure to ask my mothers to tell you something truly harrowing about my childhood,” Allene replies, patting her friend on the shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I don’t <em>have</em> parents, so there!” Feon says triumphantly, as if those words are the winning hand of a card game.My insides squirm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The table goes quiet.After a moment, Lady Fidelity ventures, “Lord Feon... you don’t... you don’t have parents?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon hunches his shoulders and looks away from her.“I mean, I do.Probably.But it’s not like I <em>remember</em> them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” she says, and sniffs.“That’s so sad...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine!”Feon turns to her with a sort of desperately put on smile.“Dragons live <em>way</em> longer than humans do.I’m sure I’ll meet them eventually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“After your prince dies,” Halwynn Ballard replies quietly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My heart stutters in my chest.I stare down at my lap where my hands sit, clenched tight and trembling.I try to breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room lapses into a deeply uncomfortable silence.After what feels like a decade, Feon pipes up with false enthusiasm: “Speaking of shit <em>no one wants to talk about,</em> I remember that as part of your petition you offered up some sort of cure-all that is supposedly <em>more potent than dragon blood.”</em>Feon snorts as if to show just how much he believes <em>that</em> claim.“And I guess my question is, like, one: what is it?And two: the fuck?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eloquent as ever, I see,” Ambassador Ballard replies, one brow raised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The look Feon shoots them could wither grass.“I think we can dispense with the courtesies, the two of us, and you can take me as I am, considering I stopped your daughter from getting iced like ten years ago.Or is that not enough for you?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon rolls his eyes and spears a floret of cauliflower on his fork.Tension crackles through the room like the first warning before lightning strikes.“I know you both like to pretend that it was Caed’s fault in the first place or that I insulted you by daring to, like, <em>not</em> let Lysithea get eaten, but that’s bullshit and we all know it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m tired of — whatever <em>this</em> is.”He gestures around the table with his fork before chomping down the cauliflower in a single bite.“I didn’t really care before since Caed didn’t seem to want anything to do with you lot considering you <em>stole the dragon egg intended for him and ate it</em> — but he’s making an effort and you’re, what, poking at him?At me?Seeing what you can get away with before one of us bleeds?Like you can curry Caed’s guilt and anxiety and braid it into a noose for his own hanging.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon turns his gaze upon each of us in turn, one after the other, and when his golden eyes meet mine, they’re steady in a way they haven’t been in ages, filled with that fierce love and determination, defiantly loyal even in the face of my rejection of him.I bend to it like a sunflower to the sun.I hadn’t known I was craving it, that I needed it, that I had been wasting away for the wanting of it.Then he looks away from me and back towards Ambassador Ballard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you owe it to us to be upfront, without the all not-so-subtle barbs and the political doublespeak and the nothing words and the coded implications.We’re here because we mean it — or at least Caed is.Frankly, I don’t give a fuck.But you owe <em>me,</em> which means you owe <em>him.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene reaches across the table towards Feon, though he’s too far for her to touch.“Feon, please, this is a <em>first </em>conversation.These things take time.It’s al—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t <em>care!”</em> he squawks.He grabs his napkin from his lap and throws it down upon the table before standing.His chairs scrapes loudly against the floor.“If we’re going to start this — whatever <em>this</em> is — then they have to be willing to meet us at the same level.I will <em>not</em> sit here and watch Caed get toyed with when he’s trying to — to reach out, to find peace, <em>whatever.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Big whoop he can’t move the king on the petition, are you surprised?But you know who oversees the structural day-to-day policies of Nadara?All that boring shit like roads and tariffs and whatever else?<em>Caed.</em>And he’s <em>trying to reach out</em> and you’re playing this like it’s a game, like it’s another mechanism to leverage power.It’s fucking stupid and you should be ashamed.”This last bit he directs at Halwynn Ballard in particular. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s eyes are shining, twin beads of scorching sunlight that flicker and flare.His chin juts forward, his face contorted by scorn, one finger pointed accusingly towards the ambassador.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, this is probably why the king won’t trust any petition put forth by you.Come back and talk to us when you’re actually ready to earnestly engage in this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, Feon turns with a derisive snort and makes for the door.He sweeps through the room like a storm — and then he’s gone, leaving us stunned in his wake.The worst part — or maybe the best — is that he was <em>right.</em>Halwynn Ballard <em>was</em> toying with me, plucking at my worries, my discomfort, boxing me into a corner for some unknown motive.And I was blind to it, too busy defending myself, too busy feeling awful, to see the trajectory of the conversation.Never in my life did I think that <em>Feon</em> would provide such incisive critique of a delicate and politically charged situation — albeit a critique delivered in a decidedly indelicate way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, that was certainly dramatic,” Halwynn Ballard says.If they were bothered by Feon’s words, I cannot tell.Their dark eyes remain fixed upon the closed door for several moments more before they meet my gaze and incline their head towards me.The silver beading in their locs twinkles in the lamplight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I apologize if I did not adequately meet your expectations for this conversation,” they continue.“I assure you I have nothing but the best intentions in mind.I am as exhausted by the antagonism between our lands as you are and did not mean to continue to contribute to it, but old habits die hard.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They smile.They’re beautiful in a strange and off-putting way, soft and harsh all at once, their features both round and strong, their scars almost magnetic in the way they pull my gaze towards them.“I am sure that with time and effort, we can come to an understanding that is mutually beneficial for both our peoples.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.“I certainly hope so.”Without consciously making the decision, I find myself standing, my eyes scanning the faces at the table.“Forgive me, but I’ll have to bid you all a good evening,” I say.“I appreciate your — I appreciate what effort you have made to begin this conversation.I think it would be best if we resumed this at a later date.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I try to smile at them, but it feels false even to me.Polite farewells are said, but none of them feel quite real.Lady Ballard is picking at some silver stitching on her hose and refuses to meet my gaze.Allene reaches for me as I pass her and she grasps my hand.Our eyes lock.She squeezes my hand gently.Then she lets me go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m out the door and down the hall as quickly as I’m able.I don’t know which way Feon went, but I can guess, and I accelerate to a jog in the hopes of catching up with him.I find him at the end of the hallway.He’s leaned against the wall, golden curls tumbling down his brow, hands in his pockets, eyes downcast.Waiting for me.As I draw level with him, his gaze flicks upward and he cocks his head to one side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I say.I feel a little breathless, though the brief jog wasn’t enough to wind me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you might come after me,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not for that,” I reply.“For—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He seems so very calm, somehow, the air between us still, his gaze steady.I’m the first to look away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We walk together, past the grand drachenglas windows and the ballroom and the games parlor, our footsteps echoing against stone and tile.Habit carries us to the portrait hall.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I used to find Feon here all the time when we were young, sitting silently on the tile, staring up at the gilt faces immortalized in paint and canvas.They’re all here: Yuen and Hael and Paign; Venna and Gosse and Norna; Leira and Renea and Koel.I’m there, too, as is Feon and my father and everyone else in our line.Ten generations brought together by pigment.Only Laen is absent, unborn and unknown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stop together and that is habit too, for we stop before a particular favorite painting of Feon’s.It’s a portrait of my father, younger than I am now, with Yuen at his side.They look so strikingly different: my father’s head tilted back proudly, dark hair tousled with a becoming lack of care, fire in his eyes, his face so like mine in structure and yet so unlike it in attitude; and Yuen, almost deferential, his face like marble, his lips full and yet hard all the same, his long, cornsilk hair plaited neatly.My father looks as if he owns the world.Yuen looks as if he only barely inhabits it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He never quite seems real.Yuen is white gold, his features fine and sharp and beautiful — ethereal, in a word.And yet next to Feon he seems pallid by comparison, a wan, wilted imitation of Feon’s pure golden radiance.A sallow, anemic beauty, all husk and cornsilk, and Feon the truth and the substance within.I wonder if Feon thinks the same of me or if in his eyes I am the chaff and not the wheat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Being here is strange for me, like looking through a hall of mirrors, my face echoed across decades, across centuries.I’ve always been told that the blood runs strong in our family and the proof of it is here before me, for looking at a portrait of Solene is near like looking at one of myself.I dislike it immensely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They look so young,” Feon says softly.“It’s strange to think of them as young.Your father is — he’s like stone, steady and slow to change.It feels like he’s been old my entire life.And Yuen...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s voice breaks my reverie.I glance at him sidelong.He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted upwards to take in the full scope of the painting before him.The portrait hall is lit softly, just enough to illuminate the art without risking too much degradation of the pigment by the sun or the drachenglas that imitates it.So it is that Feon is cast in shadow, its touch like a whisper, with only the outermost strands of his gilt hair kissed by light.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wish I remembered Yuen,” I say.“I wish you’d had the chance to meet him.I wonder sometimes if — if he’d been here, if we’d had him to temper my father, to help us, to teach us, if maybe we would have had an easier time of it growing up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you think that would have been better for us?” Feon asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He hasn’t turned to look at me yet.His profile here is deeply familiar to me and so very dear because of it.This is the first time we’ve come here together since returning from Cindwick.And that thought — that sudden realization — it burns me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wonder sometimes, too,” he says, his voice dwindling away into the encroaching silence.“Like, maybe we wouldn’t have gotten so fucked up if we’d had someone who knew what it was like and wasn’t broken because of it.If he was here to dropkick us emotionally when we got too far up our own asses.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Father knows,” I reply, more defensive than I meant to be.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And he can hardly speak of Yuen outside of carving his mark into his skin every year.”Feon sighs and turns, finally meeting my gaze.“The king is a lot of things — including deeply fucked up.Probably worse even than you and me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fall silent.Bite my tongue.He’s right, I know, and yet I can’t bring myself to agree.Feon seems to read my silence for what it is.He raises one hand and runs his fingers through his curls.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I say finally.“For — for us.For not knowing how to handle us, how to treat you kindly.”I can’t look at him and keep going and so I look away, turning my head to the opposite wall where rests a portrait of Yuen and another dragon, Venna.His mother.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re always taking care of me,” I continue.“Like during dinner.You saw what was happening and you stopped it.You protected me.Like — like you always do.”I take a deep breath.“And yet I’ve done hardly anything to return the favor because the thing — the thing that hurts you most is me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m surprised at myself.I hadn’t planned to say that, hadn’t planned to speak of any of this, and yet once the words find my tongue I cannot contain them.I have to force myself to straighten, to turn back, to meet Feon’s gaze.He’s staring at me, eyes wide and golden, lips just parted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you plan on changing that?” he asks, his voice gone sharp as a lance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>asked</em> if you’re planning to <em>stop</em> hurting me any time soon.You’ve acknowledged it now.What are you going to do about it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” I whisper, my throat rapidly closing so that barely any air escapes.“I don’t know if there’s anything I <em>can</em> do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon looses a disgusted snort.“Then don’t fucking <em>apologize</em> to me,” he spits.He has his arms crossed over his chest and his face is hot with blood.“Fucking hell, Caed, I’m not going to sit here and let you use me to hurt yourself.You’ve done enough already.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stagger back, shocked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wasn’t—” I begin.“I didn’t mean to—”I shake my head, wishing that motion was enough to clear it, to align all the fragments of my brain.What Feon is saying makes an awful sort of sense and yet I can’t grasp it, can’t make it intelligible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon,” I try again, and this time there’s pleading in my voice.“I have wanted — wanted to give you an answer, to settle things between us.You deserve more than — more than what I can give you.More than what I <em>have</em> given you.You deserve clarity and—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s loud, protracted groan cuts through my words.“Oh my fucking <em>sun.”</em>There’s such force behind his voice, such feeling.“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Caed, but despite your wishy washy ‘I <em>do</em> love you, Feon,’s — it’s pretty fucking clear how you’ve answered me.You’re <em>getting married.</em>And unlike Allene, you don’t seem to—”He halts mid-sentence, unwilling to complete the thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wish I knew how to give up on you,” he breathes.“I wish I could just—”Here he stops, too emotional for words.He fists his hands in his hair and pulls at it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>do</em> love you,” I reply, voice broken.“It’s just—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not the same.”Feon shakes his head.“It’s never been the same between us,” he says, and to my surprise it’s the exhaustion in his voice that does me in, that prompts the first tear to fall from my eye.This is <em>my</em> doing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve spent my entire life loving you in one way or another, Caed.Loving you and <em>only</em> you.When we were younger, I thought — I thought we were inevitable.That you had your issues to work through but that you loved me all the same and that you were — that we’d—”He stops again.Sighs.Shakes his head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caed, I believe that <em>you</em> believe that you love me, even though you seem hellbent on only acting on it in the worst way possible.But the way you treat me?It’s so fucking <em>weird.</em>I’ve realized that recently.Ever since—”He stops and shakes his head again.Exhales a loud groan.Raises his hands and slaps his cheeks until they’re a bright, stinging red.“The point is, you don’t think about me, not the way that I think about you.You’ve always been more focused on hurting yourself than you ever have been on <em>not</em> hurting me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My mouth falls slack, stunned.Feon drops his hands and stares me dead in the eye, challenging me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” he says when I don’t speak.“Am I wrong?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s advancing on me now, his steps quick, his mouth pulled into a tight scowl, his eyes too wide and too bright.When he places his hands upon either side of my face, they’re hot, so hot they nearly burn me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know that whatever I am to you, that whatever I do, it’s not enough.”He’s whispering now, his breath like steam on my face.“It will never be enough.I could die for you the way Yuen did for your father and it wouldn’t be enough — your hatred for yourself outweighs any love I could give you.And Allene?She’s fun.She’s new.But she won’t be enough either.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He tracks my eyes with his own, traps my gaze whenever I try to look away.His face is contorted with emotion — with pain, with scorn, with pity.He’s close enough to kiss me, to do so easily, but he doesn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’ll never be able to fix what you want her to,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon—” I choke out, but he silences me with a finger to my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going to give you a gift,” he says.He looks away from me, his gaze falling downwards, and only then does he release me.“There was a while when I thought — maybe you chose her because she’s human.Because she’s a woman.And I — I could be those things.Human, in appearance if not in actuality.A woman...”He sneers, his ire turned inward.“I thought if I just tried hard enough I could be anything, <em>anyone</em> you wanted, and that would be enough.I even thought about killing Allene and taking her place, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Feon,” </em>I say again, my voice pushing out of me forcefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon doesn’t look up.“Don’t worry, I didn’t think about it <em>that</em> seriously.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Any thoughts I have of responding are quashed by the absolute force of emotion that hits me in that moment, a wave of feeling that bowls me over and threatens to drown me.I stagger back, stumble, fall to my knees.I can barely breathe.It howls within me, so loud, so very loud, thunder and violence, a vehement shaking of my whole being, vibrating me to pieces.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stares down at me, his hands in front of his chest, something small and silver glinting in his grasp.Slowly, he kneels, and he presses the small whatever-it-is into one of my hands.A ring.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene gave it to me,” he says.He looks pained now.“To help me keep you out of my head.To give us some space.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He curls my hand around the ring.I can feel it, cool despite the heat of his hand, a single bead of stillness amongst the cacophony of feelings.Of Feon’s feelings.It takes time for me to realize it, but it’s there, the familiar plucking now terrifyingly strong, magnified a hundredfold by its absence, a riot of pain and pity and anger and spite and love.The full force of our Bond come roaring back to life within me.I hadn’t realized just how quiet things had grown until it returned and saw fit to drown me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I learned more about you by a few weeks of your absence than I did in years of having you in my head,” Feon says.“There is a poison inside of you and it — it’s horrible, Caed.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His voice is soft, his hand gentle as he brushes the hair from my sweating brow, and yet it hurts more than his anger ever could.I shudder.Close my eyes.I feel dizzy, nauseas, my hearing muffled, my head singing shrilly.I’m shaking — violently.I realize it when I hear the soft <em>ting ting ting</em> of metal on tile.When did my hand open?Feon kneels beside me patiently and picks up the ring and slides it onto my middle finger.It’s tight at first but it quickly eases.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You need this more than I do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And all of a sudden, the tumult stops.Or most of it does.I still feel awful, but that’s — but that’s all me, I realize.A low laugh burbles from my open mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When did the two of you get so close?” I gasp out, laughter caught in my voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon bites his lip and looks away from me.“I didn’t mean to.”He says it defensively, like he’s done something wrong.“I <em>hated</em> her — or I thought I did.But she’s.Well.”He takes a deep breath and looks up towards the ceiling.“There’s something about her, Caed.”When he finally meets my eyes, his gaze is steady.“I think I know that about as well as you do now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes a moment for his words to make sense, but when they do I feel — strange.Surprised, but not really.Hurt, yes, I think I am hurt.But it feels off.I’d suspected — well, I’d entertained the thought, though I had dismissed it quickly.To have it confirmed...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not going to apologize,” Feon says, his lips pulled tight in a defiant scowl.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I ask you to?”My voice is a wheeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He frowns at me for a long moment and then sighs.“Listen, Caed, you look like shit.And I love you.But I can’t be here for this, not anymore.Not if I want to get over you any time soon.Or ever.”He stands and my hand makes an aborted motion as if to grab for him, but I stop it before I can so much as touch him.“I’m going to go get someone to take care of you, okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s gone before I can summon anything resembling a cogent thought.Maybe if I’d thought of something — the right thing — I could have stopped him.But would I have wanted to?The answer comes to me quickly: yes.For all I’ve fought against it, after all the pain and guilt and denial, I still want him beside me.Maybe that is unfair of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Allene... she helped him with this, helped him to draw away from me.Why?Even before Feon’s admission I could see — something.A growing affection, an affinity.After all, when I found Allene the morning after her attack, she was with Feon.I’ve always thought her regard for me to be fleeting, that I would crest the wave of her affection until it subsided, until she grew bored of me and turned her gaze elsewhere.I wasn’t expecting it to happen so quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He really did a number on you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A voice cuts through my thoughts.It’s low, gruff and familiar.I glance up, blinking, and find the captain standing over me.She offers me her hand wordlessly and I take it.I’d forgotten I was sitting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You look like shit, kid,” she says without preamble.Something about that statement is weird but I’m not sure what. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She helps me to stand and waits to see if I need assistance walking.I shake my head and she nods.Without a word, she steers me through the hall, up stairs, and all the way to my chambers.I hardly realize where we are when we stop.I’m numb to it all, numb to the feeling of walking, to the sounds of servants bustling about.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The captain ferries me inside, gets me seated in one of the parlor armchairs.“Should I send someone up for food?”I shake my head.“Tea?”Another shake.“Do you want to sleep?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know what I want,” I say, my voice cracking horribly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Captain Elske regards me with the sort of vague unease of a woman prodding at an unmoving animal to see if it still lives.“Do you need — someone — someone to talk to?”She looks so uncomfortable that I think I might have found it funny if I could find anything funny at the moment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, but I don’t think you’d understand.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wasn’t offering,” she replies stiffly, though I think she was.“I thought you might have wanted to see that keeper of yours, Jasper, or perhaps the princess.Hell, Brennard, even, he’s near your age and you seem to like him well enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I say quickly.“No, I don’t think they’d be much help either.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The captain stands before me looking immensely awkward.“Is it—”Here, she pauses, and sniffs loudly.It’s so unlike her to look so ill at ease.“Is it Bond business, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Something like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would it help to speak with your father?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“No,” </em>I say with such force that it shocks even me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I appreciate your concern,” I say.“You may leave now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She gives me a single, curt nod and heads for the door.There, she hesitates, and says, “I could send for an herbalist.Get you something to calm your nerves.”She seems uneasy and I realize that she must not want to leave me unaccompanied.That she doesn’t trust me to my own keeping.Like I’m a child.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I close my eyes.“Sure,” I reply.“Fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next thing I hear is the soft click of the door closing behind her.I feel dull, listless, like I’ve had the marrow sucked out of me.It’s no wonder Feon’s grown sick of me when I can’t even appreciate the rare occurrence of open concern from the woman who, in no small way, contributed to my upbringing.I squander any sentiment directed my way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can’t stop thinking about how even Feon, who is magically bound to me, can no longer stand to love me.It is the proof, finally, of what I have suspected for so long: that he cannot love me of his own volition, that he is compelled, that there is no way for me to know how much of his heart he can freely give. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His love always seemed too strong, too fierce, too all encompassing to be natural, to be real, to be more than a side effect of our Bond.That must be why he can hate me now — and he does and I know it, for I felt it, felt his scorn and pity burning me almost as much as his love.His heart is more his now than it ever has been and all thanks to this little ring.I stare down at it, at the silver band of metal that arcs down my finger in a sloping v and the bead of amber nestled comfortably in its point.Allene gave this to him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene — that’s another thought.She’s fucking Feon, or at least I think that’s what he meant.That there’s something between them and knowing Feon it’s likely physical in nature.And worse still, he said <em>‘there’s something about her.’</em>Feon holds hardly anyone in regard, least of all his sexual conquests. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It galls me to learn of their relationship — whatever it is — this way.I’d thought, whatever my shortcomings, that Allene had come to hold some measure of real affection for me — that although the contract of our nearing marriage did not necessitate any amount of feelings, that still we did not lack for them.She told me as much.And yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wonder if this is my fate, if I am forever destined to find love and lose it and all by my own doing.It seems to me that there is no one who cares for me who isn’t required to.Feon is made to by our Bond, Allene is tied to me by our marriage contract, and even the captain is bound by her employment.And, truly, what reason have I given them to care for me?I’ve spent my whole life trying to fulfill my duty, to serve my people as they deserve, to inherit the land governed by my father and see it thrive by my hand.I’ve never learned how to be lovable, how to be someone worthy of love.And now it is far too late.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t think about what I’m doing, don’t really notice the knife until its edge is sliding across my skin.I am overwhelmed by feeling to the point of numbness.Isn’t that odd?It’s a contradiction and it’s sort of funny, actually, but I don’t have it in me to laugh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m vaguely aware of wetness and of heat, like there’s warm milk dripping down my arm.It’s thick and sticky and strange, spilling over my bare skin and pooling in my palm.When did I remove my jacket?The long sleeve of my shirt is bunched up at my elbow, but even so it is not saved and I watch as the white fabric turns red, red red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right.That’s my blood.More blood than I meant to spill, if I’m being honest.My knife is slick with it.It drops as I clap my hand to the underside of my opposing arm, covering the cut.I feel like my whole body is buzzing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Someone shakes me.They must have knocked, must have entered, but I didn’t hear it.A hand grabs my bleeding arm and tugs it up over my head.I hear a ripping sound and watch as calloused fingers wrap my arm up tight in torn fabric.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you trying to kill yourself?” a voice asks.It’s gruff, familiar.The captain perhaps.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck my sun-bleached asshole, kid, but you scared the shit out of me.”Definitely not the captain.“Keep your arm over your head or I swear on your hot, dead grandmother’s anamnesis that I will flay you alive.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I obey the order.That, at least, I am good at.My hand feels strange.Not mine.That buzzing is still there but it’s lessened somewhat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Drink this,” the voice says and presses a cool glass into my uninjured hand.My fingers are still slick with my blood and I nearly drop the drink before I hear an exhalation of impatience and the glass is taken from me and then pressed to my mouth.On the other side of the glass, Connor stares back at me, her face grim as she kneels before me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t know you were an herbalist,” I say dumbly.The glass is hard and cool against my bottom lip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m a woman of many talents,” she says, “Now drink the fuck up before I <em>make</em> you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Whatever’s in the glass, it’s unconscionably bitter.I nearly spit it out, but Connor presses her warm, sweaty palm to my mouth and forces me to swallow.I taste salt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I heard you had a fight with your little wyrmling,” she says.Now that I’ve drunk the — whatever it was — she’s turned from me and is rummaging through a bag on the floor.She’s not in uniform and her hair is down, cascading over her broad shoulders in a snarl of tangles.There’s blood in it, I realize.My blood.“I imagine that’s why he hasn’t come bursting through that door to force feed you his blood.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look away from her.“Something like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” she says, and I can tell from the exasperation in her voice that she’s judging me.“That’s great.Just great.”She sighs and pulls a face.“Alright, you can put your arm down now.I’m going to unbind it and replace the cloth with some proper bandages and a poultice to help it clot.And then I’m going to get you high out of your mind because whatever’s going on here—”She waves at my whole body.“—Clearly, you need it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She ties a rough tourniquet just below my elbow and then pulls my arm forward, wrist up, and rests it upon the shelf of my knee.I’m shocked by how very red the bindings are already, how soaked they’ve become.I’m not used to suffering any more than a minor injury without the aid of Feon’s blood.I watch the bones of her hands move as she works.It’s strange, like I can see through her skin to the construction of her body, her veins thick and prominent and pulsing with life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There you are, kid,” Connor says.She slaps me on the thigh, startling me.How much time has gone by while she rebound my arm?I didn’t feel its passage.“Can you smoke?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.She pulls a joint from a wallet in her satchel and lights it up, takes a puff, hands it to me.I take it, unfeeling, in my uninjured hand.It takes me a few moments to remember why I’m holding it and what I’m meant to do with it.I haven’t smoked alone before.I’ve only ever done it with Feon.Still, my hand only shakes a little as I take a drag.Smoke floods my lungs.I hadn’t realized just how cold I was until I feel that heat at my lips.I shiver.Take another drag.Too much smoke.I cough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor laughs and takes the bud from me, puts it out, and puts it away.“You wanna tell me what got you so fucked up you decided to open up an artery?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.My hand still hasn’t stopped buzzing.Not my arm — my hand.I wonder if I spilled so much blood that it lost feeling.Maybe I’ve permanently injured it.I twist my arm experimentally, turn my hand this way and that.The amber ring glints contentedly on my middle finger — but no.It’s not amber anymore.The stone is now a deep, rich red, like garnet.Or blood.It pulses, soft but steady, a low thrum.A quiet buzzing.It feels like acknowledgment or recognition.Like it knows me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, that was fast.”Connor laughs, cutting through my focus.I blink and stare back at her, confused.“It usually takes me a bit longer before I get super interested in my hands, you know?”I don’t, but I nod anyway.“Alright, kid, I think we’re done here for now.I don’t have to stay here with you, but given the circumstances, you know I can’t leave you alone here, right?”I nod again.She makes to stand and I grab for her with my good hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t,” I say.My breath comes in fast and sharp.“Please don’t... don’t tell anyone.About what I did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor frowns down at me.“Kid, I’d keep your secret if I could, but people will figure it out eventually.There’s a hell of a lot of blood in your carpet, for one thing.”I go still and she sighs.“Listen, I can’t say that I don’t understand.Maybe I don’t understand why <em>you</em> did it, or why now, or why this time.But it seems like however many times you’ve done this, you’ve done a real good job of fucking yourself up this time, and at the rate you’re going you <em>are</em> going to kill yourself, even if you don’t mean to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Connor crouches before me and unbuttons one of her sleeves, and pulls it back, bearing her arm.And there, on its underside, I see scars.All sorts of them.Small ones, no wider than the point of a pin, and long ones, thick ropes of tissue that cover the trenches she tried to make of herself.And round ones: dark, shiny splotches that pepper her skin like freckles.Burn marks.She pulls her sleeve back down and buttons the cuff shut.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll keep it quiet,” she says.“I won’t tell anyone who doesn’t need to know.But Elske needs to know.You are her ward.She is bound to protect you.Anyway, I’m sure she’ll come up with some explanation for <em>this.”</em>Connor waves at the blood that stains my clothing, chair, and carpet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.Connor leaves me eventually, though she stays longer than she said she would.She gets me out of my bloody clothes, gets me cleaned up, draws me a bath and yells at me when I almost get the bandages wet.Jasper tries to attend me but I send him away.I can’t stand to see the pain and confusion in his eyes.Servants see to me instead.They are so very careful with me, careful not to hurt me, careful not to look as if they are curious about how I ended up in this state.They put me in bed, pull the covers up, stoke the fire, bring me soup.I feel old and weak.I feel like my mother.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the gentling haze of the leaf wears away in the middle of the night, it wakes me, my arm ablaze, pulsing with the tiny, burning bites of a thousand fire ants.It hurts like a devil and itches to hell and back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I think, sardonically, that if Feon hadn’t given me his ring — Allene’s ring — that he would have felt it when I cut myself, would have felt it when I cut deeper than I’d meant.I’d always been so careful before, careful to never cut myself so deep that he’d feel the need to find me — because he would have.He would have run to me.He would have seen what I’d done to myself and would have felt — there, my mind stops, pulls up short like a horse rearing back from the edge of a cliff.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well, it doesn’t matter now.Whatever happens to me, I can rest easy knowing he won’t suffer for it any longer.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. A Much Needed Conversation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a short one by spitfire standards. i was working on the promo art for this chapter but then i fell under the weather, so now you get some quick portraits i did of some side characters instead.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Lady Cecily Del Vega neé Myrrh</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lady Alyssum Krause</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lady Pavani Desai</p><p>
  
</p><p>Jasper Grove</p><p> </p><p>Allene</p><p> </p><p>If someone had asked me before tonight’s dinner how I thought the meal would transpire, I would have answered that I did indeed suspect disaster might be on the menu, but I would have been entirely wrong about the particular flavor profile we were to sample.Oh, there has been the expected awkwardness, the not-so-secret under the table squabbling dressed up in goodly manners and pretty words, and near enough posturing to make me ill.None of that has been the least bit surprising. </p><p>Neither was I surprised that the proceedings were halted by a sudden outburst from Feon.I’ve spent enough time with that foolhardy drake to grow accustomed to such things.No, rather, it was the contents of his diatribe that caught me unawares.That Feon was even paying enough attention to serve such specific invective rather than the more generalized fury for which he is known — well, perhaps I do not give him enough credit.Still, somehow I do not think the Feon of three-odd months ago would have cared enough to pay such talk any mind.</p><p>Regardless, as far as any matter between the Larish an Nadarans go, it was not a wholly unsuccessful endeavor: I did, after all, manage to get them through two courses before dinner was abruptly ended by Feon’s hand.More than that, I have found the whole ordeal strangely heartening.Things have been so awkward between the prince and his dragon of late, the growing rift between them a near palpable thing.To see them close that distance at all — well, it gives me hope.</p><p>Though, of course, Feon’s speech did not leave me without questions — questions which I am determined to have answered.The moment Caederyn makes his exit, I whirl upon the Ballards and asked them:</p><p>“What did he mean that you ate the egg?” </p><p>Lysithea wrinkles her nose and frowns and buries her face in her wine glass while her parent surveys me levelly.I glance back and forth between them, a frown pulling at my lips.</p><p>“Your grace, I must confess to not having heard that particular critique of my people before,” Noble Halwynn answers.They seem cool to me, their face composed save for the slightest tick at the corner of the burned side of their face — a tension.Disdain or perhaps disgust, I think.I doubt I would have seen it were I not sitting right beside them.“Certainly, if such a thing did occur, I did not myself partake and I think you would be hard-pressed to find a Larish citizen who would confess to such an act.”</p><p>I frown and sit back.“It does sound sensational to be certain.”As the table is laid (albeit somewhat uncertainly) for the next course, I mull over my thoughts.“Well, then, what did happen to the egg?”</p><p>Here, Noble Halwynn gives an elegant shrug, like a ripple of water passing over a lake.“My lady, these events are more than a quarter century past.Who can say?”</p><p>Eventually, dinner is salvaged.I wouldn’t necessarily call it a lively evening, nor even a pleasant one, but with our grouping absolved of its Nadaran members things grow decidedly less awkward.After all, this particular configuration of people is much more accustomed to one another’s company. </p><p>I leave the evening feeling strangely optimistic.Though this meal has not gone particularly well, no one present seems adverse to a second attempt and I am tentatively confident about Caederyn’s willingness as well.Similarly, wherever my prince and his dragon have gone off to, I have high hopes that they are having a much needed conversation.I know they both wish to make amends despite their own stubbornness.Lastly, my preparation of the dagger is nearing completion and soon we can attempt to parlay with Feon’s pesky fae admirer.I feel on the precipice of something major: a discovery, a catharsis, a unity.Good things are on the horizon.I can taste it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning I take to my tower.The curving stairway that leads to my workroom is dark, peppered only intermittently with windows so that most of my walk is in shadow.It’s a long climb.By the time I reach the top stair, sweat prickles at the back of my neck and beneath my breasts.Ugh. </p><p>I set my key in the door to my workroom but find it unlocked already.It’s not the first time, but it is rare, and it is not something I was expecting.Sometimes, servants will do their cleaning early in the morning so as not to disturb me, though they usually remember to lock up behind themselves.</p><p>Opening the door to my workroom is like opening the door upon the morning.I’ve come to love this small thing: the low shade of the hall giving way to the warm morning light that floods in through the wide drachenglas windows.The tower is still cool this early, chilled by the altitude and by the passage of night. </p><p>This surprised me at first — once summer arrived I had expected no reprieve from the horridly hot temperatures — but the dry Nadaran air holds little moisture and even less heat.Heat follows the sun like a jealous lover, never far behind her step.Accordingly, I’ve gotten into the habit of starting the cool boxes early to stave off the worst of summer’s attentions. </p><p>But today, I find them already working, the opening of the door bringing with it a chill breeze.And there, at the far end of my workroom, stands my prince: poised beside my desk, his back to me, bent over one of my shelves.I step inside and let the door fall shut behind me.</p><p>“Oh, Caederyn, good morning!What a lovely surprise!”I beam.</p><p>In an instant, he goes ramrod straight, though he remains with his back to me.“Good morning,” he replies.His voice sounds rough.</p><p>I frown.“Is there something the matter, my prince?” I ask.“Did you need something from me?”</p><p>He starts to shake his head but then stops.“I was just — I was thinking of borrowing a book.”</p><p>“Of course,” I reply.“You are welcome to borrow near anything in my collection.I’d be more than happy to help you pick something out.”</p><p>He nods and grabs a book from the shelf, seemingly at random.“This one looks interesting,” he croaks out.Even from this distance, I recognize its bright yellow cover: Magic for Morons.Caederyn stares down at the title, seemingly stunned.I laugh.</p><p>“You know, as a primer on the basics, it is quite good,” I reply reassuringly.“I find it does well at distilling the finer points of magical theory to its simplest tenants.Given your education on the matter, it is an apt choice, if perhaps a somewhat colorful one.”</p><p>Caederyn nods and tucks the book under one arm.His ears have gone faintly pink.Smiling, I approach him.“Now, what is it you’re actually here for — or did you simply want to see my face?” I preen.</p><p>I’m a scant step away when he finally turns.He does it slowly, as if dreading facing me, and when he finally does I can see why.He looks terrible.I stop mid-stride to behold him: the pale skin, the puffy eyes, the sickly sheen of his face, the exhaustion seeped into every one of his pores.</p><p>“Oh, Caed,” I breathe and rush towards him, my arms outstretched.</p><p>“Don’t!” he says sharply, and I stop again, my shoulders jumping with surprise.Seeming to regret his tone, he exhales a long breath and runs a hand through his hair.It, too, seems worse for ware: unwashed and uncombed and limp.“Sorry,” he manages, his voice drawn taut.He shoots me a look that I don’t know how to read.</p><p>“Caed,” I begin again, “Please tell me what is the matter.”I frown and think back to last night.“Did something happen with Feon?”</p><p>He goes stiff and still as iron and that is all the answer I need.</p><p>“Oh, dear,” I say, voice soft, “What happened?”</p><p>He bites his lip.Looks away.Sets the book down on my desk.Nervously grasps one hand with the other.I glance away, thinking he’ll be more comfortable without my eyes upon him.A quiet yet decisive clack, bright and sharp, cuts through the morning’s still air.I turn back to him and see it: that simple silver ring with the bead of amber nestled at its crux.I inhale sharply.</p><p>“How did you get that?” I ask.</p><p>“Feon gave it to me.” </p><p>Caederyn is looking down at me, the hollow of his dark eyes shadowed by the heavy line of his brow.He grimaces and rubs one cuff-covered wrist with the palm of his other hand.His movements are stiff and awkward, like he’s been stretched too far and no longer knows how to fit into his body. </p><p>I stare at the ring, longing to take it back — after all, it is mine — but not daring to do so, not with the weight of unspoken words in the air between us.I gave that ring to Feon — or rather, lent it to him — so that he might gain some peace of mind, some distance from his prince.That Caederyn now wears it bears with it heavy implications.I don’t know what happened between them, but given Caederyn’s bearing and the presence of the ring, I don’t think it went well.</p><p>Eventually, he picks up the ring and slides it back upon his finger, his expression easing slightly as he does so.I bite my lip.Caederyn looks away from me, his gaze cast out the nearby window, and despite his exhaustion I find his profile no less striking than usual.Even worn away like this, he is beautiful: a solemn, tragic figure, those narrow lips and that sharp, hawklike nose.He’s like an ancient Moräni statue that’s washed in from the wreckage of some ship or another: weathered, eroded and fractured, and yet handsome all the same.</p><p>“I want to hear, in your words, why you gave him the ring.”He still won’t look at me.</p><p>“I — I promised him.I promised him a favor in trade for — it doesn’t matter what it was in trade for.”I shake my head and sigh.“Listen, Caederyn, I will be honest with you: I had my misgivings and I did try to dissuade him, but when it became apparent that this was something he was fixated upon, I decided it better that I aid him than to allow him to find his own means, as I suspected those would have been far more destructive.”</p><p>Caederyn has one hand resting upon the surface of my desk, although “resting” doesn’t seem an apt description.His body is tense and the line of his arm is harsh as it takes his weight.His hand is rigid, the forefinger curled like a claw and tapping arrhythmically upon the wood below.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me.”His voice is strained, like he’s trying to keep the accusation out of it, but I hear it all the same.</p><p>“No,” I reply shortly.“No, Caederyn, I did not tell you because — because what would you have me do?”I throw up my hands and let my frustration show through.“I am so very fond of you — of both of you, mind — but from the moment you allowed me into your life, you have placed me between the two of you, and you have seen fit to use me as both a blanket and a barb, a tool for your own protection and for his provocation.”</p><p>I take a deep breath and try to force myself to calm down.I don’t want to fight with him, not if I don’t have to.Before I can speak again, he cuts in:</p><p>“Are — are you leaving me?”</p><p>He’s looking at me finally, his eyes glassy and bright, his face pinched with anxiety.His voice is pitched up and so desperate — so fearful — I feel, quite suddenly, the impatience flee my body.</p><p>“No, Caed, I’m not leaving you,” I reply, the words leaving me as an exhalation.I approach him slowly, like one would a skittish colt.Tucked as he is into the juncture where desk meets shelf, he has a cornered look to him.“I think there is something truly special about you, Caederyn, I really do.Something wonderful.And I think it’s something worth working for.That’s why I’m here, with you, as far from my homeland as I’ve ever been.”With all the care in the world, I take his hands in mine and let my eyes find his.“I hope you think the same of me.”</p><p>He stares back down at me, his eyes wide and lips parted, and though we’re nearly the same age he looks so very young.He has isolated himself too efficiently and my heart burns at the sadness of it.</p><p>“I do,” he croaks, his voice strained, his hands squeezing mine with a feverish despair.“I think you are worth every iota of effort I have within me.I just don’t know if I can.”The pain in his face — Laws, but it cuts deep!He looks like a goldfish stranded aground, eyes bugging out and mouth gaping, his hands trembling with the force of his fear.</p><p>I pull him out of the corner and away from my desk, over to the twin armchairs on the other side of the room.“Come,” I say.“Sit.” </p><p>He does as he is told.I pour him a glass of water, which he gulps down greedily.The water sloshes loudly inside the cup and some of it spills over the rim and onto his fingers.I think he would very much like to cry now but either can’t or won’t.I take the armchair beside his and wait for him to finish drinking.He drains the last dregs of the cup and sets it down on the low table before us.It clatters loudly.</p><p>“I don’t know if you can either,” I say at last.“But I think you can.And I would like to see you try.”</p><p>He nods, still wide-eyed as a buck before a lion.“I — I want to try.I will.I’ll...”His gaze drops to his own hands, which are clenched tightly atop his knees.“I’m sorry.I hadn’t thought — didn’t realize—”He stops.His fingers dig into his trousers.“You deserve better than to be our buffer.I was — relieved — to have you shoulder some of that weight, to — to have a tangible reminder for him, for me, some reason other than rectitude to keep us apart.”</p><p>My brow furrows.“Caederyn, I want to be honest with you: I know what you’ve told me, but I don’t understand why you are doing this to yourself.”</p><p>He jolts upright and stares me dead in the face.His hands seek mine and take them, squeezing tightly.“Allene,” he says, his voice gone breathless.“I don’t want to — I will try not to — I will do what I can to, to not place you between us—”He’s speaking too quickly, his words spilling over each other one after another, a tumbleweed of sentiment.“But I need you to understand.I can’t — I don’t want to ask more of you, but—”</p><p>“It’s okay, Caed,” I reply, squeezing his hands back.“If there is anything I do my best to give freely, it is compassion.And if you ask too much, I will tell you.”</p><p>He nods and finally loosens his grip on my hands — a relief, as it had begun to hurt — but doesn’t drop them.“Have I ever told you about when our Bond was formed?” he asks.I shake my head.“I was five, I think, at the time.Feon had been with us, here in the palace, for nearly two years and we’d — it was like having a dog, sort of, a very clever and incredibly clingy dog that sometimes scorched me in my sleep.We couldn’t talk but we — communicated.In our own way.”</p><p>He sits back, his hands sliding from mine, and I let him go, watch as he slowly reclines, his usually impeccable posture turned pliant as seaweed in the armchair’s hold.</p><p>“For several weeks before the ceremony, Father came to me every day and drew my blood.He did so precisely, never spilling a single drop, and then he’d lock it up tight somewhere cold.I never knew where.”Caederyn frowns.“I liked it — not so much the drawing of the blood or the light-headedness after, but I liked that he was paying me so much mind, seeing to me personally as he never does.”He pauses.Looks away from me.“Never did.”</p><p>I bite my tongue and let him continue unimpeded by the flood of pity those words bring.Caederyn rubs his thumb over his clothed wrist and then stops very suddenly and clasps his hands in his lap.</p><p>“And the food.We always had an extra hearty meal after and Fa— everyone was just a little more indulgent for a bit.”He clears his throat, unable to meet my gaze.</p><p>“On the — the day of the Bonding, Father took me aside and — and he spoke with me.Not as a child, but as a prince, as the newest rung in the ladder of our lineage, the next bearer of our torch.He told me that he, too, once had a dragon — and this I knew, of course, for I’d heard of Yuen and had seen him everywhere, had grown up knowing his face even if I didn’t know him.</p><p>“Father told me that that dragon, who loved him dearly and without reservation, had given up their life for his own foolishness.He told me that to be Bonded, it would require of Feon true devotion — devotion and loyalty and even love.That I must treasure the Bond and treasure the one who would bear its mark, he who would be irrevocably reshaped for having been tied to me. </p><p>“He told me that to take advantage of that love, of that devotion, would be an evil so vast there could be no name for it.That it would be a vile and heartless thing to wield Feon’s heart as a means to an end.That Feon would soon do nearly anything for me for want of my love and I must keep my head above all else, lest I ever abuse that.That I didn’t need to be good or even kind, but I did need to be responsible.To be conscious of the power I would have over him and to not use it for my own gratification, whatever that meant.”</p><p>I sit there, stunned, my gut clenched tight, a slow, sinking feeling creeping over me.</p><p>“Caed—” I begin, but he cuts me off.</p><p>“I promised him, Allene.”He meets my gaze and his eyes are burning, glistening fiercely with unshed tears.“But more than that, I promised myself: that I would cherish Feon and that I would be mindful of him and of our Bond, that I would never seek to usurp his heart when it wasn’t his to give freely.At least, not to me.”</p><p>“You — your father had you promise all that at five?” I ask.</p><p>Caederyn’s gaze drops from mine.He shrugs.“Near enough.It wasn’t the last time we spoke of it.That first time — he simplified his message but the contents remained the same.”He hesitates.“Eventually, he had it written up for me and had me read it.Until I could remember.Until I understood.”</p><p>I exhale a long breath.“Oh, Caed...” I murmur, saddened and horrified all at once.“I can’t know the Bond as you do, nor as your father does, but to ask that — particularly of a child.”I shake my head.“It isn’t right.”</p><p>“He did what he had to,” Caederyn replies, that stubborn glint returning to his eye the way it so often does when the subject of his father is broached.“He did it so that I would know.So I could protect Feon from our Bond and from myself.So I wouldn’t hurt him — not in that way, at least.”</p><p>He looks away.I reach forward and touch his knee with the tips of two fingers.</p><p>“Your father did you an unkindness, my love,” I say softly.“Perhaps it was a necessary one, though I’m uncertain of that, but it was an unkindness all the same and you should not be feel obligated to defend his treatment of you.”</p><p>Caederyn shakes his head.“It was necessary.I don’t want to — I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to Feon.I’ve hurt him a lot, I know it, I can’t escape it — but I’ve never — I’ve done my best to leave him his autonomy, as much as I was able.As much as I am able.”</p><p>I frown and press my palm to my forehead.“This is giving me a headache,” I say.“I don’t know what the right answer is, but I know he loves you, and you—”</p><p>Caederyn stops me with the raising of a hand.“Allene,” he says, his voice raw and wretched, “Don’t.Please.”</p><p>I scowl with displeasure and ball my hands up in my lap, but I hold my tongue all the same.“We will speak of this eventually, Caederyn,” I reply.“I can see you are not equipped to at the moment, but—”</p><p>“Thank you,” he replies, with so much feeling that at least a good third of my frustration bleeds out of me, which is enough to settle me somewhat.For now.</p><p>“Alright, go on,” I say, still a little terse, but minding myself as best I’m able.“You’ve yet to complete your account and I’m still here and listening.”</p><p>“You sound a bit like a governess,” Caederyn replies, almost smiling.</p><p>I eye him beadily, still a little too annoyed to find that remark charming.“Perhaps you should think on why I feel the need to use such tones.”His face falls and I instantly regret it.“Oh, Caed—”</p><p>“No,” he says quickly, his hand shooting up again.“No, I deserved that, I—”He stops, drops his hand, sighs.“I will do my best not to vex you so in the future.”</p><p>“And I will do my best to forgive you even when you do so,” I reply. </p><p>Caederyn looks back at me with a sort of helpless, guileless bemusement.“I really like you,” he says quietly.“I really, really do.”</p><p>“And I you.”I nod and give him an encouraging squeeze on the knee and wait for him to continue.</p><p>Caederyn sighs and takes a moment to compose himself before he speaks again.“So — the Bonding ceremony.Father had my blood — rather a lot of it, considering I was a child and had very little to give.He dripped it down his blade and with its tip he drew a mark, a sigil, upon the floor.</p><p>“Feon was sat in the center of the sigil, his scaled body emitting so much heat it curled my hair.Father helped me to cut my hand and with that fresh blood I drew the Mark upon Feon’s chest.”Here, he pauses and looks embarrassed.“Father had had me practice the mark for weeks beforehand, but he still had to hold my arm for me, to guide me, as my hand shook too much unaided.</p><p>“The moment that last stroke was laid upon Feon’s chest, I felt—”Here he goes silent for a moment and his eyes take on a faraway, wistful look.“I don’t know how to describe it,” he says, voice gone all soft and tender.“It was like there was a second heart in my chest, a second heartbeat, this one stronger than mine ever had been, and I was full to bursting with it, with emotion, with feelings brighter and stronger than anything else I’d ever felt.</p><p>“It was like — like fire, like the sun, like so many things.I hadn’t understood until then just how much a heart could feel.It bisected my life — my life before the Bond and my life since.They are, to me, two entirely different things.It was a new depth of life that once experienced I could not close my eyes to, could not pretend to be unknowing of it.</p><p>“I felt the moment of the Bond, felt the moment when I knew I would never again be alone, not for as long as Feon and I both lived.I felt his heartbeat and mine, staggered, asynchronous, until suddenly they weren’t, until they pulled even with each other, until they mingled, beating so closely in tandem I could not discern one from the other. </p><p>“And I felt like — like I could see myself through Feon’s eyes, and the way he saw me...”Caederyn goes quiet again, his voice evaporating to silence.“And then he was human — or human-shaped.His body went gold all over, gleaming and bright, as blinding as the sun, and his body changed, shifted, until it matched mine.He was my echo, my mirror, but golden all over, and that bloody red mark etched upon his chest.”</p><p>I sit quietly and listen through it — through all of it — partly out of respect to Caederyn, partly due to my own interest.It is fascinating.My hands are clenched tightly in my skirts, the knuckles paling from the sheer effort of withholding my curiosity. </p><p>This thing that Caederyn speaks of, the Bond, seems so many things: wonderful and terrible and beautiful all in one and to hear of it — I can’t help but water the seed of envy in my heart, the one that’s been there ever since I first learned of a boy and his dragon, the one I have tried so desperately to hide. </p><p>It’s fucked up and I know it and I feel horrible about it and the more I learn about their Bond the worse it gets.I have promised myself time and again that I will never speak of it to either Caederyn or Feon, for I fear of the pain my envy would cause them. </p><p>The Bond has been the root of so much pain, corrupted as it has become by time and bitterness and obligation, but I wonder if it is always that way with every pair, if it has to be that way.I wonder if there is any fixing it.It is a beacon of such pure, unadulterated magic and it wounds me to know that such a thing could be bad, could mar the hearts of those I care for.</p><p>Caederyn stands and I realize, belatedly, that we’ve been sitting in silence for the past few minutes.With some effort, I rouse myself from my thoughts and stand as well.</p><p>“Thank you for telling me, Caederyn,” I say.“I know how deeply personal this must be and I am glad to have you share it with me.” </p><p>He gives a short of jerky movement that I think was meant to be a shrug.It’s so strange coming from him, so awkward and ill-mannered, something I’d expect to see from Feon but not from him.</p><p>“I — I thought you should know,” he says, and he’s back to avoiding my gaze.“I — Feon is my second heart.As much as I have hurt him, he is precious to me.”Caederyn drifts to the side, back towards my desk and away from me.</p><p>“Don’t forget the book,” I tell him.“Let me know if you find it useful.”</p><p>“Right,” he says and picks it up.He takes it in both hands and stares down at the garish cover as if it holds the answer to some deeply complicated problem.I wait.</p><p>“Please treat him well,” Caederyn says finally, his voice a tiny, sorrowful thing.“Thank you for the book.”</p><p>He leaves, then, brushing past me before I can reach for him, before I can so much as respond.I don’t try to stop him — he needs space, I think, and now more than ever.Please treat him well.Four words spoken so very quietly and yet they contain so much within them that is yet unspoken.I have an idea of his intentions regarding that comment, but I’m not certain, and I don’t entirely know how I feel about it yet.</p><p>I exhale a long breath and move back to my desk.It’s a bit of a mess currently — books and papers and journals spread out in a haphazard sprawl.The last time a servant attempted to tidy up this particular section of my workroom, I had to have a very strong-worded conversation with the head of staff.Since then, they’ve let it be.</p><p>Or have they?Sitting on top of my most recent reading is an old notebook, one that I think predates even my arrival in Nadara.I keep them all, of course, and keep them with me, as they’re often a valuable resource in my studies, a ready record of those bits of magical theory that have proved most difficult or interesting to me over the years.</p><p>It’s odd to find this one on top, given it has nothing to do with the very tedious grammary that Arcanist Ebner and Mister Gooden helped me to concoct.I open it, flip through it, and remember.Pouring through my old notes is like walking through my own history.I can see my learning, my frustrations, my breakthroughs.This particular notebook is from a year or so ago and primarily contains my scattered musings about magical resonance.I’d just attended a lecture by an arcanist with perfect resonance and had been determined to teach myself the trick of it.I had failed.Miserably.</p><p>Frowning, I set this notebook aside and begin to sort through my things.All seems in order.All save one thing: my ledgerdemain is missing.It’s a small thing, a log of all the various magics in my possession.Primarily, I use it as a means to track all the various ingredients at my disposal: their specific properties, their use, the amount in my possession, the amount most frequently called for, how often and how much of it I have used, and the threshold at which I should request more.I do my best to keep fastidious notes on the subject but I haven’t updated it in the past week at least.</p><p>Thinking I may have misplaced it, I do a more thorough searching of my desk.I neaten up the surface of it, stack my things so precisely I think even Clemence would approve, and then I practically tear up my drawers.I even check my shelves and the armchairs and the floor to see if I’ve left it there.I pat down my pockets, but no: no ledgerdemain there either.Perhaps I’ve left it in my rooms — though I doubt it.I don’t frequently take it down there.</p><p>I sit at my desk, a frown pulling at my lips.It’s not a particularly vital item — its absence is more inconvenient than anything — but it is strange to have it go missing.I’ll have to ask the servants to do a more thorough cleaning this time and I’ll have to check my bedchambers.Perhaps Clemence or Fidelity had a moment of busybodied cheer and decided to restock my ingredients without my knowledge.</p><p>Or perhaps Caederyn took it.I can’t see why he would.There’s nothing particularly interesting about it and he should know that I would readily share anything with him were he only to ask.And yet, the way I found him this morning: coming in early, standing between my desk and bookshelf, his posture strangely lax, his eyes fevered.It did not look as if he meant to see me this morning — or if he did, that he expected to have more time before my arrival.</p><p>It bothers me.All through my search of my chambers, it niggles at me, a frayed hem, a cut on my tongue.Fidelity and Clemence don’t have it and the servants’ search bears no better results than my own. </p><p>But I can’t allow myself to be distracted forever.The making of the grammary is a long process and tonight I must make my final preparations for the dagger’s binding before it steeps in the moonlight.Tomorrow, I hope, we will have answers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Another Errant Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>new pov same bullshit</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    
  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lysithea</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">White orchid and fern.Acacia blossoms for volume and sprigs of white-tipped ivy for balance.It’s the perfect bouquet, each specimen picked at the peak of its beauty before being dusted lightly in silver powder and given its place in my arrangement.It’s the perfect bouquet and the perfect gift.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is all this?” Allene asks as I flourish the flowers before her.She’s sitting at her desk, her back straight, her skirts falling in neat folds down to the floor, her work illuminated by the bright golden glow of the room’s wide window.She laughs, delighted, her twilit eyes sparkling with interest.She takes the bouquet in hand, holds it to her face, smells the flowers therein.She’s dressed practically today, her garb simple and mostly unadorned, her hair tied back in a braid.I can only see the barest hint of cleavage, which is unusual for her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A gesture,” I say grandly.“My condolences on the trajectory last night’s dinner took after you so graciously saw to coordinate it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re lovely,” she replies, her face glowing with pleasure.“Thank you.I’ll have someone send up a vase for them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wink at her and then give her a deep, sweeping bow, which prompts her laughter once more.It’s sweet on the ears, all sunshine and honey.It’s ruined by a loud snort, weighted thick with scorn and snot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I <em>help</em> you?” I ask. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I straighten and whirl around to fix my gaze upon Feon, who is sunk deep into the embrace of an old, broken-in armchair.His boots lay abandoned on the floor, one tipped over the other.His stockinged feet are propped rudely upon the tea table before him.There’s not even room for them on there — his heels rest upon the cover of some old, thick tome, the cover long-since frayed and sun-bleached.I’d pretended not to notice him when I entered, but alas some illusions are too sweet to last.Allene stands and walks to the door, no doubt to task some servant with the fetching of a vase.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I’m just wondering where <em>my</em> flowers are,” Feon replies like the tactless little wyrm he is.“Seeing as how you owe me an apology and all — or at least your parent does.”Still reclined, he raises his arms and makes grabby hands towards me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I loose a disdainful sniff.“Seeing as how you can’t even be bothered to make yourself presentable in front of a <em>lady,</em> I don’t think I owe you any measure of decorum.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon grins.“Don’t worry, Lysithea, my lack of regard for you transcends your funky little human genders.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How <em>very</em> enlightened of you.”I roll my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene passes behind me on the way back from the door, her hands now empty.“Oh, give it a rest, you two,” she chides.“Dinner went about as well as can be expected, given your attitudes, and Noble Halwynn <em>did</em> apologize after you left, Feon.No doubt they’d be happy to offer you the same apology later.Anyway, it’s not as if you actually <em>want</em> flowers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s the principle of the matter,” Feon huffs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Since when have <em>you</em> had <em>principles?”</em> I demand, one hand pressed to my breast in (mostly) mock disbelief.Allene shoots me one of her “leave it be” looks, but how can she expect me to ignore such bait when it dangles before me, so conspicuous and so very tempting?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon straightens — or tries to, but the chair has him already half-swallowed.He flounders in place for several moments before slapping his palms down on the chair’s arms and heaving himself up upright, red-faced and scowling.I laugh.Loudly.He leans forward and jabs a finger out towards me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fight me,” he hisses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would love nothing better,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“No.”</em>Her tone is so forceful that Feon jolts in his seat.We both turn to look at Allene, who is eyeing us both with steadily mounting disapproval.“For Laws’ sake, give it a rest!I’m so <em>sick</em> of this!Why can’t you just <em>get along?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon looks away, his lips pressing together into a pathetic pout.“We’re basically getting along,” he mutters and almost manages to sound as if he means it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Magnanimous as ever, I swoop in to save him.“We joke, of course.It’s all in good fun, you know.”Allene narrows her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m having a lot of fun,” Feon says, as convincing as a horse in a wig and lipstick.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Clearly,” Allene replies</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The thing is, we’re not exactly lying.Or at least, I’m not.For the most part.Of course, there <em>is</em> an underlying discomfort in our interaction.I still remember the press of his claws into my shoulders and I doubt he has forgotten the sting of my rapier against the fleshy underside of his jaw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There comes a knock upon the door and when Allene grants entry, it opens and a servant enters, their hands cupped carefully around a tall vase, its mouth spilling forth with the bounty of my gift.The vase is well-crafted, the glass clear as a bubble (Nadara <em>is</em> known for its glasswork, after all), but it is a wholly uninspired choice.At the very least it does not <em>detract</em> from the beauty of the bouquet, so I suppose I won’t disparage the decision.Probably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The servant sets the vase down upon Allene’s desk and she thanks them with a smile.I sigh.Could a woman be more perfect?Beautiful, intelligent, funny and kind: Allene Briallen is a beacon; that she deigns to share her light with anyone should be cause for them to grovel at her feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look at that,” Allene says approvingly as she surveys the new arrangement of her desk.The light misting of silver powder catches the window’s glow and spins it into starlight.“Beautiful — truly beautiful.”She turns and smiles at me, her disapproval forgotten.“Thank you again.I love them.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She leans towards me and presses her lips to my cheek.I go very, very still.She parts from me, her smile warm, her dark eyes singing with satisfaction.She pats me gently on the back of my hand.I hasten to compose myself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well, I couldn’t possibly present you with a gift unworthy of your gaze!”I laugh grandly.“Though, of course, they pale in comparison to <em>your</em> beauty.They are but a flicker to your radiance, a shell to your sea, a paltry weed to the harvest bounty that is your smile.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yes, <em>of course,”</em> Allene replies and laughs.She bats me away and turns back towards her desk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before she can sit, I say, “I was hoping that you would see fit to accompany me to dinner tonight.To make up for last night’s disaster.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene pauses and glances back towards me.“Oh, <em>Lysithea.”</em>It’s the way she says my name — a sigh, so gentle and sweet, and yet not as sweet as I’d like it to be.She turns to face me.“I am sorry to say that tonight I am quite thoroughly booked — and, besides, I’ve already eaten.”Her smile is a balm for the bruise of her refusal.She settles backwards to lean against her desk.“I have some time sensitive research to attend to tonight and my whole day has been — well, let’s just say that it has been a day.”She exhales a weary breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh — of course.But regardless of whether dinner is — <em>ahem</em> — <em>off the table,</em> I’d be more than happy to aid in your research,” I reply.“I’m certain <em>he</em> can’t be much more than a hinderance to your work.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey!” Feon barks.I ignore him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s been plenty helpful,” Allene replies, saint that she is.“Anyway, it’s not really work I can accept help for.”I snort delicately into my shoulder.“It’s a somewhat delicate matter, very tricky, and I don’t trust any besides myself with it.”She pauses and looks thoughtful.“Here, at least.Nadara is not exactly flush with learned arcanists.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it not a matter you could delegate?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene smiles easily.She holds my gaze.“Well, what would be the use in that?I can’t learn much of <em>anything</em> if I delegate the moment things get difficult.”A well-reasoned rebuttal.And yet I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not telling the whole truth of the matter.“Come, now, Lysithea — we can dine together another evening.Are you free on the morrow?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She moves on quickly, fleeing the subject like a butterfly flittering on to greener pastures.I dislike it.I smile graciously all the same.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For you?” I reply.“Of course.”I wink at her again.“I’ll leave you to your studies, then.Shall I wrassle this hapless drake and see he not disturb you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like you even <em>could,”</em> Feon replies mulishly.He’s lapsed back into his reclined posture, his shoulders so low on the chair’s back that he’s nearly laying down.I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s got a book splayed open in his lap: it’s a small book, but thick, and the pages have a distinctly dog-eared look about them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why, <em>Feon!</em>I had no <em>idea</em> you could read!Your esteemed lover-boy must be so proud!”He chucks the book right at my head and would have made his mark had I not narrowly side-stepped it.The book hits the door behind me with a loud <em>thunk</em> and falls to the floor.I sniff disdainfully.“That wasn’t very polite of you.”I bend to pick it up.“What were you even reading, anyway?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before I can pick it up, Feon is out of his seat.He dives forward, intercepting my hand, and grabs the book up in his grubby little mitts.“It’s nothing!!” he squawks.“Just some light reading!!You wouldn’t like it!!”He holds the book tightly to his chest and backs away from me, his face gone a horrid, splotchy red.But it’s too late.I’ve already seen the cover.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I throw back my head and cackle.<em>“Her Lips, His Heat?”</em>I can hardly speak through my laughter.“What sort of tawdry tome is this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up!!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As he takes another step back, his stockinged heel connects with the leg of the low tea table and he stumbles.His arms go wide, flailing about wildly as he desperately seeks to right himself, and in doing so he releases the book.It goes sailing forward.I catch it deftly and immediately flip it open to a random page and begin to read aloud:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘My heart is a shambles.I cannot so much as look at him, at the ruined package of him, without summoning her visage to mind.She is an apparition, a mist that clings to his skin.It’s as if she taunts me.Her mark is upon him: in the delicate disarray of his hair, in the bruise of her lip paint upon his throat.Her lingering perfume is a promise — nay, a threat.’Really?Goddess help us, what witless offal is this?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leaf through the book, only half paying attention as Feon, now righted, makes a move towards me.He’s near my height, but my arms are longer than his, so it’s no great feat to play keep away.“Boring, boring, boring — ooh, here we go!”I laugh and resume my reading.“‘Her lips draw back, crimson curtains to a pearly crescent.She kisses my breast, sucks the bud of it into her wet velvet mouth.Her teeth graze my skin and leave me shivering.I fear that she will be the undoing of me, that the red stain she leaves upon my flesh is one I can never wash away.Her fingers—’”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon seizes the book in both hands and <em>yanks.</em>We struggle for a moment, our feet tangled together, his elbow jabbed into my chin, my hip pressed to his side.Then there is a loud ripping sound and the book gives between us.He comes out with the bulk of it, some three quarters of the pages grasped tightly in his hands.We are a mess of limbs, a confused knot.I knee him in the groin and he drops immediately to the floor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“What the fuck was that for?”</em> he gasps.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m teaching you boundaries.You should thank me for the lesson.”I toss my sad quarter of a book at him and laugh when he looks up just in time to catch it with his face.I step away, careful to tread on one of his outstretched arms as I go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow!”He scrabbles to grab for my ankle but I kick his hand away.He raises two fingers towards me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where did you even get such a book?” I ask, chortling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I lent it to him,” Allene replies mildly.I jolt.In my rush to humiliate Feon, I’d nearly forgotten that she was there — watching — the entire time.She surveys me evenly, a faint smile on her lips, exasperation and amusement fighting for primacy in her expression.She’s leaned back against her desk, her arms bracketing her body, her hands curled around the desk’s lip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course you did!And just as I was saying — it is lovely prose, truly heartfelt.The language?Striking.Evocative.Tension and yearning incarnate.A masterfully crafted piece.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene snorts and nudges my foot with one of her own.“That’s enough of that,” she says.“But seeing as how you think so highly of my extracurricular reading material, I’ll be expecting you to replace the book you ruined with one of equal or greater literary prowess.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hold a hand to my chest, aghast.<em>“Ruined?” </em>I breathe.<em>“Me?</em>My dear princess, I did no such thing!Why, if Feon had simply allowed me to sate my curiosity—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon, now standing, shoves the two pieces of the book into my hands.“Sate away,” he grumbles, glaring at me, his face still flushed (though whether from embarrassment or anger I’m uncertain).He stomps back off to his chair and curls up in it like a big, indignant armadillo.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs and rises.She presses her hands to my shoulders, turns me towards the door and gently shoos me away.“At any rate, it seems as if you’ll have some free time tonight.Why not give it a try?You might like it.Now, be gone with you!I’ve work to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so it is that I am ushered out of Allene’s workroom, disconsolate and discombobulated, and clutched within my hands are two halves of what promises to be an incredibly raunchy read.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door guard — that mountain of a woman whom I bested in the Titan Bowl — nods to me on the way out.“‘Evening, my lady,” she says and gives me a nod.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good evening,” I reply.I am about to leave that as that when I have a sudden thought.I halt and turn slowly to face the guard once more.She looks back at me with open bemusement.Allene seemed a little <em>too</em> eager to be rid of me.“The princess — is she often aided in her research by that hapless drake?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The guard frowns and thinks, one finger tapping absently at her lips.“Hmmm... I suppose I don’t know how much he actually aids her, but he does spend a good chunk of time in her tower, my lady.Him or that blond lady — you know, near your height, long hair, very pretty, always looks as if she’s vaguely uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Fae?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aye, that’s the one, my lady.”The guard smiles.“Haven’t seen her so much as of late, though.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nor have I...” I muse.Not since the night we three snuck out together.“What of Allene’s ladies?Fidelity and Clemence?They often aid in her research.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shrugs.“Not so much recently.Perhaps the work is too rigorous for them, perhaps she’s given them a break.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just as likely, they’ve had a spat,” I muse.“Much as I love her, my princess can be somewhat single-minded in her research.”I smile.“Thank you for your candor, miss...?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sieglinde, my lady, no miss required.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sieglinde.”I lean towards her and tap her lightly upon the shoulder, which is more of a feat than I was expecting — for all the good that effort does me.Through the thick cloth of her uniform I can feel the unyielding durity of the steel plating beneath.“You fought well in the tournament,” I continue.“I’d readily test my mettle against your blade once more.If you’d have me.”I grin slyly up at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The look of surprise on her face — it is so very, very sweet that I have to savor it.She’s red as a poppy.“Oh — I — er — well—”She’s sweating now, I can see it, little beads of moisture slicking up her face and neck.“If— if her grace gives me leave to do so, I would be happy to oblige.”Despite her size, it is I who am crowding her against the wall, and I take no small measure of satisfaction in that.Her voice is soft, almost wondering.“You fight like no one I’ve seen.I’d be happy just watching you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I step back and turn about face, sharper than a needle’s point.As I hasten down the stairs, I wave to her without looking back.“‘Til then!”I feel awkward, stiff, my face gone strangely tight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something about the interaction in the tower workroom has me uneasy.I’ve suspected — nay, <em>expected</em> — something might sprout between Allene and that nasty little spitfire. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Much as I love her, my princess is prone to flights of fancy.She’s dallied as she’s pleased with all sorts of people and has delighted in them all in equal measure, never giving one precedence above another.She’s impulsive, though not many save I realize it.She cloaks her decisions in pretty rhetoric and good reason, but she follows the whims of her overly romantic heart all the same, leaving one lover for another, or for a whole score of them.And I?I have outlasted them all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, there is some strangeness at play and I am determined to uncover it.I stop by Allene’s chambers and there I find Fidelity and Clemence, the former quietly embroidering as the latter reads.We take dinner together and midway through our meal, I broach the topic on my mind:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you quarreled recently with your mistress?It’s unusual to see her so embroiled in research without either of you by her side.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity drops the dumpling perched aloft in her spoon.It falls into her soup, showering her in tiny little droplets of broth.“Butter and biscuits!” she curses, and hastily begins blotting at her dress with her napkin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll take that as a yes, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence sets down her teacup.“There are... extenuating circumstances, to be certain.But to say that we have quarreled...”She gives an elegant shrug.“I would characterize it more as a respectful disagreement regarding some personal matters.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Respectful,” Fidelity huffs.She stabs at another dumpling with the blunt edge of her spoon.It makes a <em>tink tink tink</em> sound as she misses, time and again, and hits the bottom of her bowl.“Yes, it’s <em>very</em> respectful.We all have so much respect for one another.You know.How friends do.”She scowls at her soup as if it has done her a great disservice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does this disagreement involve a certain human-shaped annoyance?You know, golden-haired, breathes fire, doesn’t know how to take a joke?”Fidelity goes still.Clemence purses her lips.“I’ll take that as a yes, then.He’s with her now — did you know?Ostensibly assisting in her research — whatever <em>that</em> is — though in actuality he was reading <em>this.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I toss the torn book halves upon the table.When Fidelity sees it, she goes bright red all the way up to her hairline.Clemence merely sniffs disinterestedly.I rest my elbow upon the table, prop my chin in my hand, and lean forward to stare at the both of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are they sleeping together?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch their faces carefully.Fidelity is scowling down at her soup, her hand clenched so tightly around her spoon that her knuckles have gone white.Clemence hardly reacts at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t—” Fidelity begins.“I don’t — I can’t be certain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, what do you <em>think?”</em> I ask patiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity drops her spoon with a clatter and buries her face in her hands.“Yes,” she replies.“Yes, I think they are.I would be very surprised if they weren’t.”Her voice is tiny, a squeak, a sad and badly-damaged white flag waved from the trenches of her heart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And she didn’t tell you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not a question, but Fidelity shakes her head anyway.Hesitates.Nods.“No — I mean, <em>yes</em> — yes, she — she didn’t tell us.Oh, spuds, you know what I mean!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I dunk a cracker into my soup and wave it towards Clemence before eating it.“And you, Clemence — what is your take?You’ve always been rather astute in matters of the heart.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence looks down at me with a detached sort of curiosity.“I think she is taken with him.I don’t know Lord Feon well enough to claim any intimate knowledge of his psyche, but frankly he doesn’t seem particularly adept at hiding his intentions.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity snorts.Clemence shoots her a quieting glance.Fidelity is the first to look away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence continues.“I suspect he is yet another errant soul suckered by her magnetism.What’s more, he’s a stubborn sort and I fear his fixation with her will outlast her interest in him.You’ve seen how he is with the prince.I don’t much savor the prospect of what will become of his temperament when her attentions wander.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity frowns.“I don’t know,” she says.“This feels different.She’s never let her life be changed so drastically for a lover before.It’s not as if she’s ever wanted for one, as if she’s ever had a dearth of options.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bite back a scowl.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After that, we proceed to get enormously drunk.Clemence selects a cinder whiskey from the nearby palace-supplied liquor cabinet as well as a small bottle of Chatlin bitters from her own personal stash.We sip and we chat, the atmosphere comfortably lazy.The lights have been dimmed to a low amber glow and shadows fall about us like warm blankets.Everything is fine until Clemence, a serene smile upon her face, set a bottle of Harrogate’s Finest Vodka on the table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity begs out first, her face gone bright and rosy as it hits the table with a dull <em>thunk.</em>She stays like that, groaning quietly, her coppery hair trailing into the remains of her cobbler.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Mmm gonna... gonna die,” she mumbles, her words slurred, her voice muffled by the tablecloth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence rises from her seat and helps Fidelity up.Though Clemence walks steadily, her face is flushed with drink, a becoming warmth against the stark blackness of her hair.“Come, now, let’s get you to sleep,” she chides.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity obeys, though somewhat falteringly, and as they walk to the door she jabs an accusing finger towards Clemence.<em>“You did this.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence laughs and ferries her friend away to their bedroom.Left alone, I snag a selection of foodstuffs: a small round of warm, crusty bread, a slice of hard cheese, a date, a bite of cobbler.I wrap it all carefully in a handkerchief and stow it in my pocket.Clemence returns alone several minutes later and takes the seat opposite mine.She offers to pour me another drink but I decline.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, what is it that you wished to speak about... now that you’ve gotten me alone?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She takes a small sip from her glass.“You’ve been here in Nadara for some time now,” she replies.“Ten weeks, or thereabouts, unless I am mistaken.You and your parent both.Ostensibly to support the princess in this transition — though, if I may speak candidly...”She waits until I nod.“We both know you’d sooner eat flies than see this union made.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I snort.“Oh nooo, what gave me away?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence eyes me coolly until the smile on my lips dies.“I understand your presence and your desires, for though monogamy is a strange and unnatural custom, by and large it is one practiced by the Nadaran people and will be an expectation placed upon our princess. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Besides, the very act of this marriage will politicize your friendship with her.You are a public stance that she will be forced to make and you fear that, when pressured, she will not choose you.Yet, despite this, it seems you have made no great headway in your... aspirations.Allene seems just as set upon this marriage as she was three months past.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel suckered.Stung.My hands clench in my lap, nails digging into my palms.“What do you <em>want?”</em> I spit, too wounded to mince words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What I’ve always wanted: to protect her.”Clemence pours herself another drink, her face near impassive save for its warm, rosy glow.“I may be displeased with her at the moment, but I believe in her still.I always have.She has a goodness and a strength within her that is contagious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I still don’t understand what you want from me,” I mutter.I lean back in my chair with a sigh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As I said,” she continues, as maddeningly composed as ever, “I understand why <em>you</em> are here, even if it is an act of desperation.Even if it is in vain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you telling me to give her up?” I demand, the words coming out with a heat I did not expect.I should laugh this off and play coy, make a show of how very unruffled I am at her observation of me.For whatever reason, I can’t manage it.Maybe it’s the drink.Maybe it’s <em>her.</em>I feel seared from within.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” she replies.“Whatever intention you harbor towards or princess, that is your own prerogative.While I do think your stubbornness in this matter is unhealthy — you want our princess like a scab wants picking — it is not my concern and neither is it my business.As I said, I understand why <em>you</em> are here.I do not understand why your parent lingers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grit my teeth.“What do you want me to say?” I ask.“Zaza is here to support me — and to broker some form of peaceful trade.You know about the negotiations.You know it’s an uphill battle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I believed as much at first,” Clemence replies.“But after last night’s dinner...”She frowns.“They did not seem particularly interested in smoothing international tensions.It worries me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I look away.“Zaza isn’t perfect.They — they have history here.And with the king.And they told me — Prince Caederyn looks near an exact replica of his father at that age.It makes it difficult for them to act impartially.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence <em>hmms</em> quietly and takes another sip of her drink.“That’s as may be, but I would be surprised if it were the whole of the matter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We lapse into an uncomfortable silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that everything?” I ask, my ego shot, the coin of my patience long since spent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I think so,” she replies.“I am sorry to have upset you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you?<em>Really?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence’s smiles over the rim of her glass.It’s a look neither soft nor sharp, the delicate planes of her face kissed by shadow and light in equal measure.She seems satisfied, somehow.Content.As if I have surprised her and she is pleased with that fact.Her eyes follow me as I rise, two dark wells of unknown intent.“No,” she replies.“Not really.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I leave before I can be tempted into a bad decision.It wouldn’t do to pick a fight with one of Allene’s closest friends.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s late now, just past eleven I think.The halls are quiet — quiet enough that when a pair exits the stair ahead of me, their footsteps echo loudly.The taller of the two shushes her companion and together they make their way down the hall.I recognize them immediately: Allene and Feon.If Feon’s golden hair hadn’t given them away, then their absolute failure at covertness would have.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wonder if they’re sneaking off for a secret tryst.It seems pointless — they each have their own chambers after all, though I suppose given the recent tension with her ladies...I frown.No, it’s still stupid.Feon rooms alone as far as I know.Something here is strange.And so I decide — very reasonably and with only the purest of intentions — to tail them.The ease with which I am able to do so makes me worry for Allene’s safety.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I follow them across the hall, down the stairs, and outside into the crisp night air.They bicker quietly, their words lost in the breeze.They strike out onto the open lawn, the full moon shining in Feon’s hair, and here they are waylaid by a guard midway through their rounds.They stop for a minute to talk before Allene shakes the guard off.I go completely still.I’m hidden in the shadow of the mews but only barely.I tug a dark cap out of my pocket and pull it over my bright hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wait for the guard to pass before I press on.Out on the open lawn, there is nothing to hide behind.There is a gut-throttling minute when I am exposed without a shred of cover to hide me, with no choice but to scamper as quickly and quietly as I can into the concealing embrace of a large shrubbery.I feel vulnerable, still.My camouflage is sorely lacking.I have to remember that if any eyes do stray in my direction, they will not see so well as mine do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stick to the edges of things as best I can, only striking out into the open when there is no other choice.It hardly matters.Allene and Feon don’t even check behind them, don’t seem to hear me over the wind or their own arguing.The air is sweet with the scent of crushed grass beneath my feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t see any guards save the one they spoke with.It makes sense.Likely there are several posted at key points atop the palace, but I doubt they are looking in this direction.Besides, the main force of the active palace guard is stationed at the high wall that encircles the hill’s base.If any sort of insurgence were to occur, the opposing force would need to ford that barrier first.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene and Feon make for the conservatory and — hmm.Maybe this is but a simple tryst, one spiced by a change in scenery.My gut sours.I follow them all the same.It’s as if they’re inviting it, as if their furtive wandering is bait for my attention. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The inside of the conservatory is such a dark, cramped space.It’s illuminated only by the light of the moon and by the occasional drifting of a faintly glowing bead (the last stragglers left uncaught, a leftover from Allene’s post-tournament fête).The foliage takes this illumination and breaks it, scatters it across hundreds upon hundreds of leaves ‘til this manmade jungle looms strange and dark and claustrophobic, every frond like a reaching hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even at night, the greenhouse is alive with sound: the chorus of the katydids, the trill of a blackbird, the rasp of leaves on leaves, the distant hooting of an owl.The restlessness of it all is what makes it feel authentic, as if it is something more than an imitation of the real thing.But that’s all it is: a construction, a curio, a pretty little jewel sat right in the palm of the king’s hand and made tame for his leisure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene and Feon follow the narrow tile path deeper into the conservatory.I keep just close enough behind them to catch the glint of moonlight on Feon’s golden head.When at last they stop in a clearing — the large central one, the one with the fountain at its heart — I halt, drawing back just enough to peer at them around the bend in the path.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re speaking plainly now, no need to keep their voices hushed.“Tell me again,” Allene says.She’s standing at the base of the pool, her back to me, gazing up at the stone woman at the pool’s center.The woman holds a spear aloft and at its tip is a flickering flame.Its light dances over the princess stood before it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I told you already — I heard a... like a knocking, and she was there.She was Solene, only not, and the moon was — it was like the whole sky was made of moon.”Feon sighs.“Listen, I don’t know if this is, like, a two way thing, okay?For all I know, we’re not gonna reach her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Allene says.I recognize that voice: serene and totally confident despite the odds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon scuffs the ground with the toe of his boot.“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if this doesn’t work.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene spends the next several minutes fiddling with — something.She moves her hands back and forth and sometimes I can see something — the shadow of an object, a puff of silvery powder, the light of a small round mirror as it reflects the moon.It’s a bit boring and it’s worse not being able to see much of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frustrated, I leave the path.I step into the awaiting arms of the greenery around me, careful not to disturb the plant life anymore than the wind does.I’m quiet as a shadow and patient all the while.It’s slow going and it’s stressful — in the shadowed underbrush even <em>I</em> have trouble discerning which places are safe to step noiselessly and which are not — but it’s worth it.I can now peer around the foliage to get a good view of Allene and Feon — clear, unimpeded, and much closer than I was before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene is bent over the pool’s stone barrier.Chalk in hand, she circles it, drawing marks periodically in the rock.Powder rises from the markings, the faint white plumes like smoke or mist.It has a scent to it — strange, flowery and dry — that I can smell even here, a scent that tickles the nose.Luckily, Feon seems to share this aversion and I’m able to hold off my sneeze for long enough that we do so in unison.I hush mine as best I can in the folds of a handkerchief.Feon’s is loud, a statement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He groans and rubs at his nose.“I hate that stupid stuff,” he grumbles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up and help me,” Allene says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And, to my surprise, he does so.It’s not that he does anything particularly meaningful — but he follows in her footsteps, her materials held dutifully in his hands, his complaints kept mercifully silent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Allene says and straightens.She dusts off her hands, powder rising from them as she does, and Feon sneezes again.“I think the preparations are complete.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She takes a cloth from her pocket and wipes her hands clean with it, stows it away, and retrieves something else: a dark object, thin and tapered and about the length of my forearm.She’s holding that blood dagger, the one she tried to hide from me all those weeks ago.She stowed it in her desk drawer thinking that I wouldn’t see.My pulse quickens.The tip of it glows faintly with a strange, wavering color: like flickering starlight or an indecisive flame.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene holds the dagger delicately, as if afraid it might sting her.She circles the pool once more, slicing through the powdery mist with its edge, leaving gaps, little channels of empty air that soon close behind her.Her empty hand raises to the side of her head, over that ear, and she begins to hum.It’s nothing intelligible — no song I can discern — but something about it raises the hair on my arms.My skull buzzes.I clamp my hands over my ears. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon seems to be doing the same — his empty hand clasped to his ear, his other ear pressed to his shoulder as that hand is occupied by Allene’s materials.She does this for several minutes, undaunted, stopping only at the end of her third revolution.The katydids buzz and the leaves rustle.Somewhere in the distance I hear a faint <em>tap tap tap</em> — perhaps a woodpecker slowed by discomfort or curiosity, or some other bird dashing a snail upon a rock.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene heaves a sigh and tosses her braid back over her shoulder and consults a book.She takes more components from the pouch in Feon’s grasp and uses them liberally, dousing the water and the statues therein, scattering all manner of strange smelling substances.Her movements grow sharp with irritation, her unease with the knife forgotten.At one point, she plunges it hilt deep into the water.Nothing happens.I have to press my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you almost done?” Feon asks boredly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up,” Allene snaps.“I’m doing my best.It’s not as if there’s a recipe or a map I’m following.I’d like to see <em>you</em> do better.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine,” Feon replies and holds out his hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a huff of anger, Allene hands the knife off to him and resumes her circling of the pool.“There must be <em>something</em> I’ve overlooked...” she mumbles.I know the expression she’s wearing.I can hear it in her voice: brow furrowed in concentration, lips drawn into a steady frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon twists the dagger back and forth, staring at it.He glances Allene’s way, waits until she’s opposite him, her form hidden behind the statue, and then he, too, sinks the knife hilt deep into the pool.Nothing happens.I huff a silent laugh into my hands.He straightens just before Allene rounds the statue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Knife’s broken,” he says.“Maybe it ran out of juice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not how this <em>works,</em> Feon!”She rejoins him and waits until he reluctantly returns the blade to her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do <em>you</em> know?” he asks defensively.“What, run a lot of juice tests on it, have you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There’s no such thing as a—”Allene stops and presses her palm to her brow.“No, listen, I know this because I’ve spent the last <em>two months</em> studying this damn thing.I know you’re trying to lighten the mood but now is not the time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shoves his hands in his pockets, the pouch bulging out where he’s attempted to shove it in, and mumbles something too quiet for me to hear.Allene turns and places her free hand upon his shoulder.Something passes between them: a quietness, a moment of settling.Whatever it is, I don’t like it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, are you certain there’s nothing you’ve left out?You left the party and came here and that’s when you heard the knocking sound.You approached the fountain, dropped your joint, stumbled, and when you looked up, she was there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My breathing stills.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shrugs.“I mean, my hand got kinda banged up, I guess?”Feon mimes falling forward and catching himself on the pool’s edge.“I scratched my palm on the rocks.There was — a little blood.Not much.Just a drop.She, uhm.She drank it, anyway.Then you and Lysithea showed up and she vanished and I — well, you know.I fell in the pond.”Silence falls between them.Allene’s body has gone rigid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Oh.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What air I have remaining goes hissing out from betwixt my lips.My lungs burn for the lack of it.My head throbs.I press my back against the tree behind me just in time before my knees go weak so that my fall turns instead to a slow slide.By some stroke of fortune, whatever sound I make is eclipsed by Allene’s indignation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Feon,”</em> she hisses.“Why didn’t you tell me?!Blood is — you, of all creatures, should know how magically potent blood is!Especially <em>your</em> blood!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shrinks back.“I know!!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why, Feon?<em>Why?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know!!I just — it felt weird!Lots of things like my blood!It’s not, like, rare, you know... and besides.It was kind of.You know.It was kind of a sex thing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I have to breathe now or suffer at the lack of it.And I do — the air comes whistling in, filling the vacant space where once my insides resided.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene sheathes the knife, stows it in her pocket, and grabs his face.“Feon, I need you to repeat after me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>“Feon.”</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh, fine!!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I curl forward over my knees, press the palms of my hands to my eyes, press so hard that stars sputter and spark within the blackness there.Shock.Disbelief.Rage.I feel it all.I feel too much.My hands are shaking.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene clears her throat.“I, Feon, Hand of the Sun...”Feon mumbles along after her, his shoulders hiked up nearly to his ears.“Swear that from this day hence I will openly share my experience with magic beings when it is required of me, even when I do not think it relevant, even when it is embarrassing, even when it is a sex thing, and <em>especially</em> when it <em>concerns my blood.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only curiosity drags me back from the depths of my fury.I reach forward, part the foliage before me just enough so I may see them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon has his arms crossed over his chest.He grumbles something too quiet for me to hear, for which he earns a gust of breath blown over his nose — like a naughty little kitten.I almost laugh.“Fine!” he exclaims and repeats Allene’s words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene takes a deep breath and continues.“This I swear to Allene Yvonne Fidele Narissara Briallen, third in line to the Voswainian throne, future queen of Nadara, a charming genius and total babe who I should always listen to at all times.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“...And total babe who — hey!!”Feon breaks free of Allene’s grasp and she turns away to dissolve into laughter.“Fuck you!” he spits and shows her his two favorite fingers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, alright, good enough.”She waves him aside and unsheathes the dagger once more.“Now come back here and give me some of that sweet, sweet sex blood you’ve got everybody craving.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Ugh.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon holds out his arm, albeit somewhat reluctantly.“Just make it quick,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shouldn’t you be more worried about me being careful?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That doesn’t really matter,” Feon replies.“You don’t need to be careful with me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene pulls Feon back towards the fountain and has him sit upon the rocks beside her.“I’d like to be.As much as I’m able.”Feon makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat.“Careful,” Allene clarifies.“With you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Disgusting.I grimace.I straighten, then stand, then press forward as close as I dare until I have a better vantage point, arranging myself in the embrace of a nearby lemon tree.It’s late in its fruiting season, but judging from the scent it is plentiful still. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene reaches into her pocket and draws something out.She cups it in her hands and blows on it and a few moments later it flickers to life, radiating a small, steady light.An angler’s bauble.She sets it between them to better illuminate her work, not trusting the inconsistency of the statue’s flickering flame.Then she takes his hand in hers and turns his arm so that it rests palm up on her knee.Her finger trails down the line of his forearm, that fleshy underside where the vein runs, ready and waiting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your blood is so potent,” she murmurs, so quiet I almost don’t catch it.She draws the knife out, hovers it near his skin.“Do you know the breadth of its use?Just how much I could do with it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t make this <em>weird,”</em> Feon says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene laughs.“Sorry, sorry!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She hesitates a moment longer before making a cut — quick, decisive, and deeper than she meant to judging by her soft gasp.Feon grimaces.His blood comes as a ribbon, a neat little stream.It spills out and on to the black blade, twisting down its length until it hits the hilt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What the—” Feon begins, yanking his arm away.The last droplets of his blood sing into the dagger’s steel.His wrist flashes gold.The cut closes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t realize that I’ve been biting my lip until I taste blood.I staunch it hurriedly before that wretched beast can smell it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene stares at the blade, dumbfounded.“I know that man — Gooden — he said something about the dagger consuming blood, but I wasn’t expecting — it didn’t behave like this before!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well it sure as fuck slurped my blood right up <em>now,</em> didn’t it?What the fuck was that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do you feel?” Allene presses.“He said something about it stealing vitality or — or something like that.I don’t remember exactly.I’ll have to look back through my notes.”Panic makes her voice go fluttery.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stands and shrugs.He waves his arm about experimentally.“‘Dunno.I feel the same as usual, I think.Do you—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!!”Allene sits up straight.She has the angler’s bauble in one hand and the dagger in the other.“Feon — look —the pommel!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The parched pommel, once black, has gone a brilliant scarlet: blood made stone, like a ruby but more, like it’s lit from within.It doesn’t glow, but there is a light to it, like staring at the sun through your fingers.The pommel throbs like a headache.Distracted from the pool, Allene stands up and once more begins to wave the dagger about, punctuating her thrusts and slashes with words. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It doesn’t.Feel.Any.Different.Hmm.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stops and places her hands on her hips, careful not to cut herself with the blade.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let me try,” Feon says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He does not achieve any better results.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ve definitely done <em>something,”</em> Allene says, and I can hear the frown in her voice.“I just can’t tell <em>what</em> yet.Maybe if I cut something...” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She walks to the clearing’s edge, unwittingly approaching me, and I know I’m had.There’s hardly anything between us, just the tall stalks of some taro, the thin whispers of knee high grasses, the kiss of a fern.I shouldn’t have pressed my luck, shouldn’t have moved forward.I can see her so clearly now: the searching of her eyes, the frustrated tension of her mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She pauses at a taro plant not five paces from where I stand and kneels to cut free one of its stalks with the large, elephant ear leaf at its end.She brings the plant back to the fountain’s edge and takes to butchering it.I exhale a long-held breath.She gleans nothing about either myself or the dagger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe you need to cut flesh,” Feon says.He holds out his arm between them and waggles it at her.“Go on.Try it again.I reckon we’ll need to spill some of my blood into the water anyhow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, alright,” she says.“Let me just—”She hands him the angler’s bauble and rummages around in her pocket.She takes out a tiny bottle and drips a couple drops of some sort of oil first on to the blade and then on to Feon’s arm.Even from this distance, it reeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eugh, what’s that stuff?” Feon asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It should slow down the process.Hopefully.Just for a bit.Which should make it easier for me to see what’s happening.”She takes the angler’s bauble back and holds it to his skin, using that same hand to steady his arm.She rests the blade against his wrist once more. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I remember — listen, when I received the dagger from the king, I remember thinking that the pommel had grown dimmer, from a sort of deep garnet to nearly black, but I couldn’t be certain.And it certainly never was <em>this</em> bright with Caederyn’s blood in it.I wonder if it — the blood, the magic, whatever — if it seeps out over time.I wonder how it’s activated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop stalling.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t rush me,” Allene chides, kicking his foot gently.“And hold still.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re standing this time when the dagger slices his skin.His blood leaps to the blade, slower now.It flows up, up, up and against gravity to meet the metal’s kiss.The pommel glows with sickening glee.I can smell his blood, smell the brilliant tang of it, sharp and sweet on the wind.I wet my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Midnight sounds, loudest here in this building of naught but glass, twelve tolls of the bell struck one after another.Allene jolts.The dagger skitters across Feon’s wrist, spilling blood like snowfall.Allene cries out in dismay and drops the dagger and her bauble to clamp her hands around his wrist. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bauble lands on the tiled path with a decisive <em>crack</em> and goes dark.The dagger hits the stone edge of the pool, ricochets sideways, and falls with a heavy <em>plunk</em> into the dark water.The sound is strangely loud, louder even than the final toll of the bell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence, strange and absolute.The wind gone still and barren.My own heart seized tight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>“Fuck!”</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The statue’s flame flickers and sputters as if slowly being suffocated by the night’s touch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon rips his arm out from Allene’s grasp.The skin all around his wrist has gone bright and gold and scaly, and yet still it bleeds.I can smell it.He slaps a hand to the cut, cursing loudly all the while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you—” Allene begins.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine!” Feon exclaims.“Hurts like fuck, but — ugh, just get that thing already!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene bends down and reaches into the pool.She feels around blindly for a moment, grabs something (the dagger I think) and starts to pull her arm back — and then <em>screams.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a shrill sound, wild with panic.I jolt in place, stumble, and nearly fall, only kept on my feet by the mercy of the lemon tree beside me.I cling to it, the bark digging into my palms, my breathing heavy.I should — if she’s hurt — I should — but then she’d know —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something has her grabbed.Not something.<em>Someone.</em>Fingers, white as bone, glowing in the darkness.So achingly familiar.They close around her brown wrist, so tight they bite into her flesh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon—” Allene calls, tears in her voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s beside her in an instant, his pain forgotten.His golden hands find her arm, clawed fingers wrapping around it, and together they pull.There is a moment, a sickening breath, when I fear they will pull her arm free but lose her hand.And then that moon-bright hand lets go.There is a sound like suction, like a door slammed, and it releases Allene.She goes tumbling backwards into Feon and together they falter and fall, tangling on the tiles below.The spear’s flame gives one last, heroic flicker before it dies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s dark out completely: no moon, no flame, no drifting lights.Even my eyes fail me.I hear a sniffling, a quiet sob.Whispers exchanged.The sound a breath, blown, over and over.A faint light flickers, broken and distorted by fractious lines of not-light.Feon’s face.He has the bauble cupped in his hands, its light as weak as the last embers of morning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His voice comes out strange.Weak.Wobbly.I can scarce make it out over the newly invigorated cries of the katydids.They had all gone silent for a moment — for that moment when the hand held fast around Allene’s wrist — and have resumed their strange, arhythmic screaming with a violence.Here, in the trees, it buzzes so loud it nearly hurts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m alright,” Allene answers.She sounds — not great.I yearn to break cover, to run to her, to — but I can’t.Not after seeing what I just saw.Not after what I have learned.“My arm...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon cups his hands around the bauble and blows again, harder, so hard that flame licks around it and over his now golden fingers.The bauble glows orange like molten glass, so hot it warps the air around it.He doesn’t seem to mind.He is the sole point of light in a cage of darkness.He kneels over Allene, holds the light near her arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What <em>is</em> that?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Stone and Lore...” Allene swears.I can’t see what they’re looking at.She sits up finally and squints down at her arm.“It’s a word, I think.Something Fennlish.Hurts like hell.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon does something — I can’t see what — and the smell of blood blooms ripe in the balmy air.Wordlessly, he leans forward and presses his lips to Allene’s.I feel sick.It’s forever before they part.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Better?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Much,” Allene replies, her voice gone strangely breathless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The moonlight has returned, but it feels weakened somehow, as if some portion of her brilliance has been siphoned away.The statue’s spearpoint smolders and sputters.Feon stands and helps Allene to her feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The dagger?” Allene asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon kneels before the fountain and holds his arm over it, poised as if about to grab a fish with his bare hand.His arm goes gold from the elbow down, his fingers turning to talons.He plunges his hand into the water. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It hisses, loudly, and steam erupts from where scale meets water.He burns away so much of the water that it envelops him, the steam obfuscating his form, a ship lost in deep fog.It billows out, heat and moisture washing over me like in a sauna.When he returns to Allene’s side, he has the bauble in one hand, its light grown weak and flickering, and the dagger in the other, the pommel gone black.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene takes the dagger from him with a relieved sigh and turns it over in hand.It takes her a moment longer to notice what I have seen already: “Oh, no, the pommel!It’s gone dark again!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you want me to..?” Feon begins, gesturing with his whole arm towards the dagger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Allene replies quickly.“No, I think that’s quite enough of that for the evening.”She sheaths the dagger and stows it in her pocket.She holds her arm out to Feon and after a moment he takes it.They leave arm in arm, much quieter now than they were on the way in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wait a good several minutes, my heart thundering in my chest all the while.I wait ‘til I’m certain they’re gone and not returning any time soon. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then I’m out of the thicket and rushing towards the fountain, bending down to sniff the weirdly florid chalk (and sneezing again), examining the water, stepping atop a segment of the dragon’s body that crests the water (and hopping from that one to the next) so that I might take a closer look at the woman in stone.I have to grudgingly admit that it’s beautiful work.I hate that I find Prince Caederyn’s ancient and extremely dead grandmother (of how many generations I do not know) to be devastatingly hot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My reflection is strange in the water, my hair a shining beacon.The moon stands behind me, eclipsed by my head, forming halo around me.My eyes seem bright in those dark waters: twin needlepoints, two slivers of moonlight, two stars gone astray.I wonder if she is watching still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I squat down.Trail a finger through the water.Raise it to my lips.Taste it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hmm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I retrieve an empty vial from a hidden pocket and fill it with the water, stopper it, and stow it away.Then I leave.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s late when I return to our borrowed chambers — so late that I’m surprised to find Zaza still awake.Our quarters in Pyrehart Palace are beautiful: grandly furnished and neatly arranged, but stiff and uncomfortable, as if suggesting that our stay here should not be a long one. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I find Zaza in the dressing room.They’re seated before the vanity, a wide oak desk beneath a large mirror with a gaudy golden frame.Before them sits the aliment bowl: black metal laced with a delicate silver filigree, its twin handles thin and fine and arched like the rushing tide, and at the center is Her face in silver, sweetly serene, Her eyes closed, Her smile welcoming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her waters stand within, still as Her heart.Zaza beckons me closer.From my pockets, I withdraw my offerings: a purple cosmos, stem attached; the corner of a book page, torn; a single pearl earring, found; a small collection of foodstuffs, enjoyed; a hair from my head, plucked; a vial of water, tasted.One by one, I leave them in Her waters, and one by one She accepts them.I watch them, each of them, as they sink to the bottom, losing the thingness of themselves as they are pulled by Her gravity, ‘til there is nothing left of them to see.It is done, then, as Zaza’s offering is long since made.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her waters shimmer and from their surface Zaza plucks two scales: thin like paper, clear like ice; one for each of us.I take mine and lay it upon my tongue, close my eyes and let it dissolve, feel Her serenity upon me.It’s faded now, a pale echo of what it used to be — or so Zaza has said.Still, it is enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How was your day, dear one?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their voice is quiet, near a rasp, worn dry from a day spent orating.I fetch them a glass of water.I tell them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I always did like Lady Clemence,” they say when I recount that conversation.“She has a keen mind and a discerning eye.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Zaza removes their gloves, removes the several layers of robe and tunic and undershirt.They’re half-burned all the way down, the thick ropes of tissue ending in such a near perfect line that it’s like looking at a page from an anatomy text, those drawings where the man is half skin and half muscle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I dip my cloth in Her waters and I cleanse Zaza, gently soothing the hurt done twenty-five years past.It’s worse here: here at the beast’s doorstep, here where we are subject to his hospitality.I can feel the rush of blood under their skin, see the stiffness in Zaza’s every movement, the pain in their tired, lovely eyes.Dragon fire is not so kind as its common brethren; its touch is a curse upon the flesh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I tell them of the pool and what I saw there as I help them to soothe their scars, anointing them with sweet, cooling oil.I tell them my thoughts and what I learned.Zaza touches my head lightly.I stop.I’m kneeled before them, my head leaned against the side of their thigh, my hand upon their bared shin.I don’t need to help them with their leg as they can reach it fine themselves, but I like to.Sometimes.They reach forward cup my cheek with one rough, scarred hand, tilting my head until our eyes meet.They hold my gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You did well,” they say.“You did a difficult thing and judged your options wisely.This is something to consider.Thank you for telling me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their burns eased and our days shared, we split for bed.My room is large and impersonal, the bed uncomfortably soft.It’s musty in here no matter how much it is cleaned, the air always erring on just that side of stale.I am thrumming with energy.I am so deeply exhausted.I close my eyes and drift and think of Her face until She delivers me to the knocking of my dreams.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Bitten to Ripeness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whew! it's been a while since there's been a spicy chapter. consider this chapter of spitfire a bit of a reprieve! i've also been messing around internally with some of spitfire's formatting so you'll notice that the scene break has changed from a horizontal line to a lil diamond thing. maybe i'll one day go back and edit this in previous chapters, but probably not!</p><p>the promo art for this chapter is the art that was originally meant for "a much needed conversation" but it took... a while before i stopped being mad at it and could finish it lol</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    
  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It burns.Feon abated the worst of the pain when he gave me his blood — bit his lip, leaned in, filled my mouth with its sharp iron tang.He pulls me along now, the pale moonlight setting his gilt hair aglitter, his fingers curled around my uninjured wrist.Every now and then he glances back at me — worried, I think.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can’t stop thinking about it: about the pool and the pain and that <em>hand.</em>I don’t know what to think of it — of her.But needless to say, I do not think our first meeting went well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know when he makes the decision to bring me to his chambers, but that is where we end up.I don’t protest.He steers me through the chaos of his parlor, towards that unbearably comfortable settee before the fireplace (which is lit even at this time of year). </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room is entirely dark save for the fire’s glow.He clears off a few miscellaneous items (including a large broach, a vase, a small collection of raunchy novels that I lent him, and a needle-felted kitten) before sitting me down at the settee’s center.Then he kneels on the floor before me and turns my left arm over so that it rests tender side up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There upon my forearm, where those cold, white fingers held me, is a series of markings.Letters — or perhaps it would be more apt to call them symbols.Glyphs.It’s Fennlish, I think, though it’s not a word I recognize.Many Tir Luan languages share a root in Emani and so derive their alphabets from its script.Fennlish is an exception.Still, I am familiar enough with its graphemes that I can recognize it with relative ease.I simply can’t <em>read</em> it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is this?” Feon asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fennlish, I think, and an archaic form at that.If you look, you can see that it is missing the diacritics of modern Fennlish, which makes it much more annoying to translate.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The what now?”Feon frowns up at me.His hand cups the underside of my wrist carefully, as if worried he might break me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I point down to the scarring on my wrist.“The letters — well, they’re not really letters — in modern Fennlish there would be markings around them to denote vowel sounds.You know.Accent marks, like how your name is sometimes written with an acute accent.”Still finding non-comprehension in his face, I continue.“You know.The little tick up.That ramp over the ‘e.’”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” he replies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want to copy this down,” I say, “In case it changes.Do you have something I can write with?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon nods and quickly fetches me a quill from some nearby stash.How he finds anything in this mess is a wonder to me.I retrieve my pocket journal and jot down the markings as best I’m able, though it’s awkward going.When I’m done, I stow my journal away once more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let me see it,” Feon says and gingerly takes my wrist once more.He inspects the marking, a frown set deep in his face.His thumb brushes over the raw skin on my wrist and I flinch.Air hisses from betwixt my clenched teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry!” he says, quickly releasing my wrist and pulling both his hands back.“Does it — how bad is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It feels as if I have about a hundred frost ants crawling through my veins and over my skin.It’s so cold it <em>burns.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought cold was meant to be numbing,” Feon replies.He rubs the bottom of his nose with the back of his hand and looks away.“I know what you mean, though.When the dagger fell into the pool — it was like being scorched by ice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare down at my wrist, down at the shiny, puckered skin.Like blisters on blisters on blisters.There’s no blood, not even a drop, no incision made.That’s worse, somehow.I feel like someone has stitched my skin with ice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I try to parse out the pain.“It’s like — like being caught unprepared in a snowstorm or taking the icy plunge, and then when you get out of the cold your whole body comes alive with the need for heat.It’s like all of you is awake for the first time in ages and your body is buzzing with it.Like your whole body is sizzling.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gross,” he replies.I nod.“How is it now?Bad still?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod again.“It’s — it’s not <em>as</em> bad.But it’s pretty awful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon frowns down at my arm and then, without warning, he shifts his pointer finger into a single, golden talon and slices a line down his opposing arm.I scream just a little in the back of my throat.He grimaces and holds his arm over mine so that his blood spills onto my wound.Where it touches, it hisses and bubbles, boiling away before my very eyes.It stings like hell before the pain abates for a time — just until the last of the blood has evaporated.I stare down at my skin, dumbfounded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm,” Feon says.“That could be a problem.”He pulls his arm back.Already, the skin has knit itself back together into neat, golden scales.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you might be right,” I reply, a little breathless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you said it helped before, right?When I—”He gestures towards his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.Whatever response <em>that</em> was, ingestion did seem to curb it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” he says, “We’ll need to take this slow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch as he bites his lip again, just as he did by the fountain, his teeth growing longer and sharper until they’ve punctured the skin.He licks his lips and comes away with blood on his tongue.I stare at it, rapt.My breath hitches in my chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without waiting for my answer, he leans up towards me, his hands moving to circle the back of my head.Too-sharp nails that are halfway to talons twist into my hair.He pulls me down into him, down to those blood-slicked lips.Our first kiss was like this: his blood, strange and hot and coppery in my mouth.He’s kneeling still, his body framed by my thighs, and so I have to bend forward quite a lot to meet him.It’s uncomfortable.I want more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I cup his face with my hands and let the kiss take me where it will.His skin is so warm and so very soft.<em>He</em> is soft — soft with me, soft in a way I never would have imagined he could be.I can feel the strange pressure of his near-talons at the back of my neck and yet they are so gentle, so careful.I almost want to laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I break away first.Feon’s hands slide free of my hair without so much as pulling a strand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not that I’m complaining about the method, but if you intend to keep at this, one or both of us will need to move,” I say.I feel warm all over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon props his upper arms upon my thighs, his arms crossed, his head tilted back and turned to rest sideways upon his shoulder so that he can meet my eye.I can’t help but stare at that lovely mouth of his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do you feel?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sit back and raise my arm to inspect my wrist.“It doesn’t look any different, but I think the pain has somewhat abated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon eyes me speculatively.“I think we should get that looked at by a medic in the morning.But until then... I could help you out some more.If you’d like.”He looks away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A smile comes upon me like rain turns to puddles: it is a natural, inevitable thing.I press my hand to his crown, run my fingers through his soft, golden curls.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you been growing out your hair?” I ask, distracted.“It seems longer than usual.I like it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still not meeting my eye, Feon makes a face, his nose scrunching up in — I don’t know.Embarrassment?Distaste?Who can ever be certain with him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I guess,” he replies, shrugging.He straightens up and pulls back so that he is no longer resting on my thighs and my hand cannot reach his hair.“Listen, if you don’t want to—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do,” I say quickly.“But are you certain it won’t hurt you?You’ve lost rather a lot of blood tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stands, then.Sitting as I am, for once I find myself looking up to meet his gaze.It’s a strange vantage point to be certain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine,” he huffs.“I know my body pretty fucking well considering I literally constructed it myself.If it’s too much, I’ll tell you.”He holds his hand out towards me imperiously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” I reply and take the offered hand.“Then yes, please, give me more of that stupid, sexy sex blood in your veins.”He groans, palming his face with his free hand as I rise to stand beside him.I lean down and press a kiss to his cheek.“Thank you,” I murmur.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This had better not become a thing,” he says, eyeing me untrustingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about.”I smile down at him, batting my lashes for effect.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s times like this when I realize why you’re friends with Lysithea.You’re both <em>infuriating.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh.“Thank you.Now shut up and kiss me, you ghoul.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He obliges readily and with great enthusiasm.His lips are soft: soft and pliant and wet with his blood.It’s strange that the taste of it doesn’t make me sick.It should.I should find this repulsive, should be disgusted by the warmth or the taste or the knowledge of what it is.I’m not. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I kiss him hungrily, like I’ve never tasted another so sweet.Feon returns my avarice.He’s easy that way: spurred on to heights of ardor by the slightest provocation.He quickly grows demanding in his attentions.He pulls me to him by my hips, bites and soothes my lips in equal measure, wraps his arms around my neck.I have to stoop to accommodate him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We kiss, my tongue in his mouth and his blood in mine.Lips still locked, he tugs me back, pulling me towards his bedchamber.It’s hardly a smooth transition.We bump sidelong into all manner of strange objects: a tall vase, a haphazardly propped up canvas, a rolled up rug, a folding partition.We’re halfway there when Feon jolts and his grip on my neck goes rigid.One of his claws slices across my neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow!” I cry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon releases me immediately, breaking away from our kiss, and I see what has caused him to falter: his heel has connected with a precarious pile of junk.He stumbles backwards, no longer steadied by his grip upon me, my hold on his face not solid enough to keep him tethered upright.Down he tumbles, he and the pile alike, ‘til he’s sprawled out on his back on the floor, a cataclysm of keepsakes scattered about him in utter disarray.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oops,” he says, sounding a little winded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stays there, reclined, his face red and eyes bright, his golden curls spilling over his brow and around his head like some winsome crown.His mouth is just open, those soft lips bitten to ripeness.Upon his chest, his tunic has come undone of its own volition, the two halves falling open over his thin, loose-hanging undershirt.His eyes seek mine.He looks the picture of debauchery. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bed?” he breathes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We make short work of our clothing.My dress is a simple one, my undergarments more utilitarian than aesthetic, and Feon’s tunic seems amenable to aiding with our intentions.Still, I have to be mindful of my wrist and when I accidentally brush it against my petticoat I let out a low hiss of pain.Feon’s head snaps up immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Already near nakedness, he veers to my side, pushing my hands away from my fastenings and undoing them one after another with those long, gilt claws of his.He’s surprisingly delicate about it, those talons plucking at the laced cords of my stays with a strange deftness.I’d always taken him for more of the bodice ripper sort (and I have an amount of recent mending that would attest to that assessment), but his fingers are gentle at the dip in my back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My stays undone, he helps pull them over my head.I can feel the heat radiating off him, warming my back.I pull loose the bow tightening the neckline of my chemise and let the shift fall to the floor.Feon presses a kiss to my shoulder, then stills.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re bleeding,” he murmurs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His taloned finger grazes my neck, this time gently and with purpose as he draws my hair away from the skin.His other hand comes to rest upon my shoulder.His lips press to my throat, then his tongue follows, running up the length of the cut.There’s pressure on my shoulder — from him leaning upon it, I think — and I realize he must have raised himself to stand on tiptoe.I smile and turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse of his golden head.He presses his lips to my ear and I can hear him breathing: quick little gusts, his breath as hot as steam.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His lips coast down the back of my neck to my nape.The pressure on my shoulder abates.He kisses between my shoulder blades.The room is quiet save for the sound of our breathing.My skin feels warm and sticky with sweat.I hear the whisper of fabric as he shrugs out of his undergarments.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I turn towards him, I find his face fixed with an unexpected fierceness.It’s not an expression uncommon to his face, but it is at odds with the tenderness of his actions.I smile.Lean in.Kiss his mouth.His hands move to the cord of my drawers and untie it.His thumbs find the waistband and he draws the underpants down my hips, the curve of his claws pressing into my skin.My drawers drop to my ankles.I step free of them and join him in nakedness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His face glitters in the low light, his skin interspersed with golden scale.I draw my thumb across his cheek, marveling at how the texture shifts seamlessly from skin to scale and back again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What has you gone so golden?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hand finds mine and covers it.Our fingers lace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it a problem?” he asks.His hands have gone all golden, his forearms turned almost entirely to scale.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” I answer quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns his head.Kisses my palm.His breath is hot on my skin.There is something burning in his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It makes things easier,” Feon replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What things?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slides his hand from mine and moves it to rest palm forward against my sternum, then pushes.I take a step back, then another, and another as he advances, ‘til the backs of my calves hit the side of his bed and I am unbalanced.I let it happen.I fall back upon the mattress, shuddering as my bare skin is met by the cool, metalic bite of coinage.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This,” he says and climbs atop me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon straddles my waist, his naked thighs hot like smoldering coals.He keeps that hand held to my sternum and with the other he presses the tip of one talon to his chest and draws across it a long, bloody line, cutting diagonally through the red of his Bond mark.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All the air goes hissing out of me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I take his hand, take that bloody claw, and lick the length of it, take it in my mouth down to the nail bed and suck it clean.His talon is sharp on my tongue.I ease over it gently, careful not to cut myself on its edge.Feon holds so perfectly still that he’s hardly breathing.I draw off his talon and smile at him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leans forward, looming over me.His hands move to support his weight.They press into the mattress, bracketing either side of my face.<em>Plip, plip.</em>Little droplets of his blood drip down from his cut and onto my chest and neck. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I run my hands up his sides and to his shoulder blades before drawing him down into me.My lips ghost over his neck, to his collar, and down to his sternum where that ribbon of blood awaits me.I lick at it, tease the ruptured skin with tongue and tooth alike.He gasps. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s shifted to accommodate me, his knees pressed into the mattress, framing my waist, his hips raised into the air.I feel hot all over, the warmth of his body seeping into mine with a seductive ease.His blood is salty in my mouth — salty and rich and almost sweet.When did it become sweet?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My hands ghost down his sides and over his chest until my thumbs find his nipples.I pinch them and he goes rigid, his mouth loosing a surprised moan.His wound lays between them, down the valley of his sternum.It bleeds freely, not yet scaling over, and I wonder if he has to concentrate to keep that skin from healing or if it’s the other way around. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His blood trickles over my lips and chin, hot and slick and sticky.It spills down my neck, its furthest drops reaching my breasts.He shudders atop me, his thighs going tight around my hips, his body quaking.When I break from my attentions upon his chest, the sight of him stills me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s gone near entirely golden save for that bloody gash in his chest and the deep red of his Bond mark.His arms are taut, biceps atremble, his face flushed and eyes bright.And between his legs, beneath that golden thatch of hair, his cock bobs ready and eager. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It looks different this time: gilt at the base and flushed at the head.But what arrests me more than the coloration is the shape.All down the length of it, his cock has formed into a series of folds — soft, flowing ridges that bleed one into the other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s all this?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon stills above me.“What — what do you <em>think</em> it is?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I mean, I <em>know</em> what it <em>is,</em> but the shape—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon sits back on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest.I’d only been able to see the topmost portion of his dick earlier, but his new positioning has given me a much better view of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Those ridges arc at the underside of his cock, each pushed back by a gently protruding nub, flushed in color and almost conical in shape, though rounded.And sitting there just beneath the shaft, atop his balls, is a fully formed clit, hood and all.I wonder how all that would feel inside of me, how <em>he’d</em> feel with that clit sandwiched between his balls and my pussy.I bet he’d come completely undone.My thighs tense together and then relax.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this how your true form—” I begin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Feon snaps.His eyes are averted, his face hot.“I mean, not entirely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then...?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve been... experimenting.”If I could bottle the look on his face, I would.It is <em>delicious.</em>Embarrassment, defiance, excitement.It’s all of him laid bare before me, more naked than simple nudity could ever make him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to get a closer look,” I breathe.“Would that be alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon hesitates.“How is your wrist?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Better now, thank you.Your blood did wonders.It’s still uncomfortable, a bit sore, but I’ll manage.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He frowns, cocks his head to one side, then nods.“Alright,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon lifts up off me and together we move further upon the bed.I watch as the gash upon his chest seals itself shut.I match him in that way, wearing his blood on my chest like a coordinated lovers’ outfit, only mine doesn’t disappear: it lingers, sticky and saccharine and drying slowly.The air is salty between us.I can still taste his blood on my lips, can still feel the heat of it coursing through me like a lava flow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lays back on the bed, stomach up, his head cushioned by some sort of ornately embroidered throw pillow.I sit beside him, my feet tucked in on one side, and lean over his body.I trail my fingers down his skin, following the line from sternum to navel and continuing ‘til I brush that golden thatch of hair that waits beneath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon snorts.“Just get on with it, won’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Impatient, aren’t we?Not that <em>that’s</em> anything new.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He huffs out a breath.“I can be patient.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, can you now?” I ask, careful to keep my voice light.I press my nails gently into the skin at his pubes — for that region is not scaled over.I imagine his scalp must be the same.Feon goes very, very still.“Why don’t we see if that’s true?”I smile.“But first, let me get a good look at you...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I examine him only with the lightest of touches.The head of his cock is slick and spongey and not much different from what I would expect.I thumb over the slit and then down, over that first nub and the skin pulled back to bare it.It’s stiff, but not hard; pliant, but not slack.I press my thumb down atop it, feel it give under the pressure, but not too much.Feon sucks in a sharp breath.When I release the nub, it springs back into place with palpable enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are these?” I ask.“I’ve seen something similar in some anatomy texts on dragonkin, but these are softer than I’d imagined.The ones in my books always looked sort of sharp.I thought they were spikes or something like that.Like how some creatures have barbed phalluses.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon groans.“Ew.Don’t say ‘phalluses’ while you’re touching my dick, Allene,” he replies.“How unsexy can you get?”He rolls his eyes.“Anyway, that’s so fucking stupid.Who would want something <em>sharp</em> inside of th—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I gently rub the first of those nubs between my thumb and forefinger and Feon’s words are lost, spent into a sharp gasp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, these protrusions, with the way the ridges fold back around them, they almost look like little fleshy rosebuds.Or clits.”I grin.“Why, Feon, you rapacious little drake!You’ve already made yourself an extra bundle of nerves down here—”I thumb the clit beneath his shaft.“—Did you really need to make yourself five more?That’s a little <em>excessive,</em> don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re not—” he begins.“That’s not what—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But they <em>are</em> sensitive, it seems,” I say. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I trail my forefinger down the underside of his cock, making sure to brush each individual nub, and am rewarded by a breathy moan that he quickly stifles.I press my thumb to the cleft beneath that first nub, pushing until his cock lies flush against his stomach.Already, the slit has begun to steadily ooze precum.It’s thicker than normal and strangely sticky.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not certain how you expect to be <em>patient</em> with a body like this,” I muse.“It seems to be designed with brevity in mind.I wonder if your pussy would be similarly constructed in this state.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon squirms in my grasp, seeking any amount of friction.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, ah, ah... now, didn’t you say you were going to be patient?”I lean forward and press a whisper of a kiss to his mouth, his jaw, his ear.My breasts skim his chest.“I’ve had a terrible night, you know.Wouldn’t you like to be good for me?”I stare down at him, smiling, my hand lightly grasping his cock.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon is flushed to his hairline.He presses a hand over his face, but through the spaces between his fingers I can see a single golden eye staring back at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t— I—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, if you don’t think yourself <em>capable</em> of a little restraint, you know that I am, as ever, quite happy to indulge in your body.We could always—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can.I mean.I <em>will.</em>I can do it — whatever <em>it</em> is.Fucking try me.”The words hiss out of him from betwixt gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hum to myself, pleased, and do my best to keep my smile serene.“Well, that’s lovely, now, isn’t it?You know how eternally <em>grateful</em> I am for your <em>magnanimity.”</em>I press my lips to his jaw, then bite gently at the apex of his throat.He smells sweet, like cinnamon and musk and smoke.The scent of his blood lingers around him.“I assure you your efforts will not go unnoticed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s so easily riled.I run my hands down his body, just skimming, ghosting over his neck and chest and stomach, falling just shy of his hips.I rake my nails across his skin.He squirms beneath me, hot and impatient, but too proud to admit defeat.I suck bruises into his neck, leave a trail of them down to his chest.There, his nipples await me, pert and red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dragons don’t have these, do they?” I ask as I flick one of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon jolts.“I’m a — a dragon — and <em>I</em> do, so—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, babe, I know.But you’re mostly human now and dragons don’t usually have them, at least not to my knowledge.So why do yours remain?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I go still, poised over his body, his nipple caught between my thumb and forefinger, and stare back at him.I wait.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wh — I just.I didn’t think to get rid of them, I guess.It’s not like I’m intending to take my true form right now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I release his nipple and pat him idly on the pec.“Well, then, that’s fine.I happen to like these things so you’re free to keep them.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon starts to sit up, his mouth working to protest, but I put my palm to his sternum and push him back down, laughing all the while. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was a joke, you goon.It’s your body, do with it what you will!Though, I must admit that I rather miss your tits.”I sigh.“They were so lovely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t have to mourn them too much,” he replies.“It’s not as if they’re gone forever.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do it, then,” I say.I straighten and stare down at him expectantly.“I want to see it.”I press my palm to his pec and rub his nipple with my thumb.“More so, I’d like to <em>feel</em> it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I watch him and wait.I’ve grown excited at the thought of it.I’ve been wet for quite some time, but this thought in particular — it makes my clit throb just to imagine it.My thighs squeeze together involuntarily.I take a breath to calm myself.Anticipation is a taste I know well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After some few moments of deliberation, Feon looks away from me and mutters, “Fine, if that’s what you’re into.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh and lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek.“How very gracious of you,” I murmur, my lips to his ear.“I’ll be sure to make it worth your while.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, I straighten, and without preamble I climb astride him, straddling his hips with my thighs, trapping his cock beneath me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Allene,”</em> he gasps, his whole body jolting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh and lean back and take a moment to enjoy the contact, flexing my thighs and gently rutting against him.He feels good.The texture is new, but not bad, and those nubs...<em>Oh.</em>I grin and let my head fall back as I rub against him.I bite my lip on a moan.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s hands have found me, the palms pressed to my hips.The pointed ends of those claws of his rest so gently upon my skin, sharp little peaks pressed to the swell of my ass.His hands are trembling, like he’s afraid to grab me too hard.Afraid to hurt me.I shiver.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t need to be quite that gentle with me,” I murmur.I place my palms upon his chest, one for each pec, and then lean in close to breath in his face.“Now, where were we?Ah, yes.You were about to give me two little gifts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re not <em>little,”</em> he huffs, as if he can’t help himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh and straighten up.“Sure they’re not.”With my hands upon his chest, my arms bracket my breasts, pushing them forward to be on full display.Feon eyes them with a mixture of longing and resentment.I laugh again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With one last glare in my direction, Feon shuts his eyes and frowns.The skin beneath my fingers begins to warm and in that moment it all goes soft and pliant and elastic.The mass beneath my hands expands and I feel it when the consistency of it shifts, when the fatty tissue takes primacy over muscle and bone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My fingers buzz with it, buzz with the magic that is woven intrinsically into every fiber of Feon’s being, as much a part of him as his ire or his love for Caederyn.When he’s done, there’s a set of rather phenomenal tits cushioning my palms.I give them a gentle squeeze, pinch one of his nipples just to see how the texture has changed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey!” Feon barks out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I ease off his tits with a reluctant sigh.“Thank you,” I say.“That was very enjoyable.Though I must say, I don’t remember them being quite this big before.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that a problem?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh.“Oh, I’m certainly not complaining!But I <em>do </em>worry for your back.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smile and straighten just enough so that I can balance upright without the use of my arms.I find his hands atop my ass and take them in my own, palms up, and move them to cup my breasts.I lean forward so that the full weight of them rests in his hands.I watch, satisfied, as his eyes widen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surprising, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grin and begin to lean back, but he stops me with a hand curled around my waist.He pulls me further forward, down, down, down to that eager mouth of his.I stagger, unbalanced, and have to use my arms to prop myself up so I don’t fall right into him.Feon takes full advantage of the situation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He kisses my nipple, licks it, sucks it into his mouth.His teeth are sharp and strange, but he’s so very careful about it that it doesn’t hurt — at least, not in a bad way.I moan, letting the sound roll out of me.My hips have raised off of him and I miss the contact sorely.The air feels cool on my exposed labia. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you were going to be patient,” I gasp, distracted by his mouth and by the way he’s begun to carefully work my other nipple with those sharp almost-talons of his.I think the danger of it makes me like it more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t <em>really</em> want that, do you?” he asks, voice muffled by my breasts.The full weight of my chest rests upon his face.It’s a wonder he can even breathe like that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scrapes those awful teeth carefully across my nipple.His hands find my hips and he pushes, maneuvers me until the head of his cock meets my clit.I can’t help it.I want it — want <em>him.</em>It’s been ages since I’ve gotten a proper dicking down and I’m so good and wet for it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lift my hips and maneuver my arm around my breasts so I can reach down between us and take his cock in hand.It slides against my fingers, slides against my folds.He’s covered in my wetness, or perhaps it’s a wetness all his own.At any rate, it takes a couple attempts before I get it right, and then I have him, have the head of his cock at the opening of me.I don’t give him any warning before I slam it home. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon goes rigid beneath me.All his careful pretense forgotten, his claws dig into my ass, those points so sharp they break the skin.My hands grip tight around his shoulders, my nails meeting his scales before skittering across them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It feels <em>good.</em>I go still and stiff, my whole body flexing, my back arching until I’m upright, my thighs clamped tight around his hips, my fingers digging into his shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s well sized for me: not too big, not too small, just enough to make me feel wonderfully full without becoming painful.I wonder if he stored the memory of my insides clinging hot and wet around his fingers.I wonder if he kept those memories and studied them and estimated my dimensions so he could mould himself to them.So he could fit me perfectly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And those <em>nubs.</em>The way they rub inside me, the way they flex and shift with my movement.I can feel every ridge, every protrusion, and it sets me ablaze, so hot it’s almost overwhelming.I feel like my pussy is on fire and I love it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s hard to tell which of us is being louder.I move with abandon, too fast to keep a steady rhythm, and each flex of my hips rips the breath from our throats.The force of our coupling is so fierce that even laying down as he is, it sets his tits to jiggling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s nothing like the slow, teasing, methodical tempo I’d intended, nor is it anything like the tenderness Feon displayed at the head.It’s carnal, almost feral, like some wild spirit has taken us and all we can do is hold on for dear life until it sates itself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon loses himself quickly.His thighs flex beneath me, the muscles trembling, and he thrusts up, meeting me halfway, his whole body gone taut.He throws his head violently back into the pillows, his neck going so tense and tight I can see every twitch of his muscles therein, every movement of his throat stone, every swallow.His claws rake over my back, drawing little ribbons of blood that drip down my skin.All the air goes gusting out his nostrils and he spills himself inside me on a strained, helpless groan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t give him any space to rest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that it?” I demand, breathless, neither easing my oscillation nor my tempo.“Oh, damn you to hell, you’d better not get soft on me before I cum!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Would that the refractory period were so kind.Feon lays pliant and useless beneath me, his face flushed, his body gone completely boneless.He looks as if he’s had the very air sucked clean out of him and is thoroughly at peace with that.His face is lit with a bone deep satisfaction.I hate him immensely and don’t waste any time telling him so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate you immensely,” I spit, glowering at him as I lift off his hips.His cock, now gone soft, slides free from me with all the grace of a wet mop.His seed follows, dripping down my cunt and onto my thighs.My clit throbs angrily.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon flaps his hands at me before cupping them around the back of my head and pulling me to him.He kisses me, sure and satisfied and slow and not at all matching my mood.I bite his bottom lip none too kindly.He doesn’t seem to mind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Allene,” he murmurs into my mouth, “Don’t worry.Just give me a few.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Don’t worry,’” I huff.“That’s easy for <em>you</em> to say.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He kisses my cheek.“I can eat you out if you’re feeling impatient.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wrinkle my nose.“I suppose you could.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Or were you looking forward to it that much?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I groan and put my hand to his face and shove against him ‘til I’m straddling him unbent once more.“Oh, shut up.Yes, maybe I <em>was,</em> and if so, what of it?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shifts beneath me, moving until I’m situated in his lap and he can sit upright before me.He’s so short like this, his face about level with my breasts.With the mass of my ass adding to my sitting stature, it exacerbates our height disparity. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He takes my face with his hands and draws me down to him, pulling me into a deep, languid kiss.I feel prickly all over, like the frustration of my thwarted orgasm has settled into my skin.His hands leave my face, one moving to my ass and the other moving between us.I feel the whisper of his talon brush my mons and I go rigid.I grab his wrist and stop him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t,” I breathe.“Your hand is still...” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” he says, surprised.“Right.Sorry.”I release his wrist.“Well, then.Back to plan A, I guess.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I can’t see what he does next, not with the veritable wall of tits (both his and mine) blocking the view, but I can hear it and I recognize the sound.Feon bites his lip and closes his eyes and lets his head loll back to one side as he jacks himself off.His hand moves quickly.I can feel it every now and then.When a particularly strong stroke reaches its apex, the knuckles of his curled hand brush my mons, stirring the short hair there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press my thumb to his cheek, marveling at the softness of the scale there.Feon’s eyes open and he meets my gaze, his gilt eyes lazy and heated. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lay back,” he says.“I’ll get you there.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wrinkle my nose.“You don’t have to—” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His free hand squeezes my thigh.“Your legs are trembling.You’ve worn yourself out.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon turns his head and kisses my thumb, so sweet I feel myself about to shatter.Quick little breaths gust out from his nostrils against my skin.Then he takes my thumb into his mouth, folds those kiss-swollen lips around it, takes it down to the knuckle.I relent after that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He eases me onto my back and spreads my legs with those strange hands of his.His claws scrape gently against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs and I shudder.One hand withdraws, moving to circle his cock once more for a last couple strokes before he’s pressing against me, lining up the head, and sliding back inside me like he never left.I loose a long, strained moan, like it’s the last bit of water clinging to a cloth and now it’s been wrung out of me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We take it slow this time — or rather, <em>he</em> does, and I’m too strung out and strange in the head to spur him faster.I’ve never felt anything quite like this.I’ve slept with all manner of people and tried all manner of toys — people of all shapes and sizes and toys to match, toys that heat up or vibrate or have some unique physique to them, gels that tingle and buzz, go cold or hot, get sticky or slippery. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">None of them are like him.It’s like he’s ignited something within me.He pushes my thighs wide, leans his body upon me, his tits heavy against mine.He presses his lips to my throat.He’s hot and solid and sweaty and trembling all over, but he ignores it all, surpassing his fatigue for the pursuit of my fulfillment.I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him to me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You feel so good,” I moan.“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t know why it feels so different.It really shouldn’t.Certainly, every lover I’ve taken has had their own eccentricities, but it’s not as if we’re doing anything special.It’s not as if the shape of his cock is so unique I’ve never experienced a toy similar to it.It’s not as if he’s the most skilled or the most attentive partner I’ve had or as if he’s my first non-human lover (though the others were at least partially human).Maybe it’s because he’s a dragon.Maybe it’s because he’s <em>him.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gasps my name out against my ear, the sound for me alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel myself at the brink, so very close and yet not quite there yet.I feel in my head and out of it, both at union with my body and apart from it.Every time I try to wrap my head around the pleasure of it, that banquet of feeling within me, something inside of me shrinks back.Afraid to accept it, maybe.Or afraid for it to end.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sun above, the way you’re clenching around me,” Feon gasps.“Allene, if you don’t, I might—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I tangle my hands into his hair and pull his mouth to mine, kissing him with all the vigor left within me, kissing him ‘til his lip cracks open once more and there’s blood in my mouth.Maybe it’s desperation that does it — or spite.I bite into him hungrily, yank his hair so hard it makes him gasp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then I feel something — some sort of growing protrusion from Feon’s body, a small nub placed with infinite care so that it rubs directly against my clit.I’m shaking, I think — shaking so much that the motion of my body against his is enough.My clit thrusts against that strange nub.It is the undoing of me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My whole body clenches like one tight, throbbing muscle.Feon moans into my open mouth.I feel suspended, caught in that moment of tension for an immeasurable amount of time.Too long. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then it’s done.It’s like I’ve come unraveled, like every part of me is releasing a long-held breath.I am wide-eyed and shaking, my skin sticky with sweat.I hardly feel it as Feon tenses above me and spills himself to completion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We lay together, Feon collapsed atop me, our bodies melded by perspiration and blood and cum.We are a sticky, sweaty mess, so drenched we’re nearly swimming in each other’s humidity.I don’t want him to move.I feel it as he goes soft and spent within me, and still we lay together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Seconds or minutes or hours later, I speak.“I want a bath.”My voice is a dry croak.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm.”He says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I don’t want to get up.”I feel raw all over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Later, then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns his head just enough to press a sloppy kiss to my cheek.I smile.My last thought before sleep takes me is that getting up is going to be an absolute bitch.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">❖</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rouse early the next morning after too little sleep, woken prematurely by a truly magnificent headache.At some point we must have shifted in the night. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon lays starfished on his back, his limbs all splayed out, his mouth open and snoring, a small trickle of drool pooling at the corner.He’s back to normal now — or as normal as he can be.No tits, no scales, no dragon dick.Still, he’s beautiful with that freckled skin and his halo of curls.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’m tucked into his side, my stomach and face to the mattress, one of my arms slung over his stomach.He’s like an oven.My body is stiff with dried sweat, but the skin closest to him is still actively perspiring.With a dry groan, I roll over onto my back, wincing at the crunch of coinage beneath me, and sit up.I’m sore all over.I feel depleted.Wrung out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I feel the same way I did the morning after the last time I let Jace bamboozle me into going rock climbing.Not only had the climb itself been quite harrowing (“easy trail” my ass), it had been an overnight hike and Jace had conspired to get us all good and properly smashed once we set up camp.That was also the night when Cassidy kissed Clemence, proving that the entire endeavor had been one giant mistake. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’d woken the next morning with the sort of hangover that only corpses should suffer and with an aching body that shrieked in protest any time I so much as breathed too hard.This feels about like that.Maybe not quite so bad — but in that wheelhouse.I fold my legs to my chest and lean on them, planting my face between my knees.I exhale a low groan.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something hard and rounded presses into the dip of my shoulder and I jolt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow!”I hiss in pain as the surprised seizing of my body renews the ache in my muscles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry!” Feon says and hastily lifts his chin back off my shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, no, it’s fine, it’s just that my entire body feels as if it’s been pulled and folded over and over again to make taffy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon sniffs.“Ew,” he says.“Is that why you’re up so early?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm,” I agree.“That and this Lawsawful headache.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He frowns at me before gingerly running a finger across my cheek.“Your face looks weird.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” I reply with a huff.I bat his hand away irritably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I mean — I think you might have some indentations from the, uhm, from all the coins...” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I groan.“Lovely.Thank you for that.”I rub at my face with the palm of one hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon just shrugs and looks away from me.After a time, he asks, “How’s your wrist?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I realize that I haven’t noticed my wrist pain much since waking.My hands are clasped together, my arms folded around my knees, and my wrist doesn’t ache any more than the rest of my body does (though that doesn’t say a whole lot, to be honest).Curious, I unwind myself and turn my arm over to inspect the skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not so bad.It hurts about the same as everything else right now.And it looks — less fresh.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That skin, which was so raw only hours ago, is now merely tender.The markings are still there, still bitten into my flesh, but the blistering has subsided, leaving behind thin, arcing scars, shiny and sore but aged and barely discernible from afar.I prod at it gingerly and wince.It’s still there alright and still very sensitive, but it’s an improvement to be certain.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon exhales a relived sigh.I glance back at him, questioning, and he shrugs.“Magic wounds like that — they can be tricky.I wasn’t sure how much help I’d be.My blood isn’t exactly a specialized substance.It’s more like keeping a dagger on your belt: it’s not the best tool for most tasks, but it’s useful more often than it isn’t and it’s more convenient than bringing all the better, more precise tools with you all the time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We dally together in bed for as long as we can stand to before the sheer discomfort of grime and sweat supersedes all the aches and pains.Feon helps to cleanse me, soaping down my skin and lathering and oiling my hair.I wonder if he gets some sort of enjoyment from it considering this is the second time he’s done so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once we’re both clean and the water has washed away the last of the suds, Feon joins me in a large tub full of fresh, steaming water.It’s only a little cramped with the both of us inside.My headache never abates, not ‘til Feon offers me a single drop of his blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It will help for a while,” he says, “But you should see an herbalist for it soon.You’ve already had a lot of my blood recently.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you alright?” I ask.“Did I take too much?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine.It just — my blood can be hard on the body.Hard for humans, I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pulls a face, his lips twisting into a pucker, and all of a sudden I want nothing more than to kiss him — and so I do.We remain in the tub together ‘til the water cools, ‘til I’ve had my fill of him and he of me.For now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We dress together, me in yesterday’s garments and he in fresh ones.He accompanies me to his door, stops me with a hand on mine, kisses my cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon shuffles his feet.“I could — if you wanted — I could probably contact her again if I was on my own.And maybe she’d be more, err, more affable about the whole thing.”His face is slightly pinked from recent scrubbing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” I reply.“I think that first I’d like to know what <em>this</em> says.”I brandish my wrist.“Once I know that, I’ll have a better idea of what I’d like to do.Thank you for the offer, I will keep it in mind.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon nods and rocks back on his heels.He has a strange, frenetic energy to him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is everything alright?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” he says.“Yeah, everything’s alright.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I begin to turn back to the door, but stop midway as another thought crosses my mind.“Oh!You — I almost forgot!Caederyn told me about the ring, Feon.”I turn a frown upon him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?” Feon replies, his voice pitched up.“And??”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And, well, it wasn’t really yours to give, was it?I can tell you meant well and I’m not really upset, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You <em>gave</em> it to me,” he snipes, arms now crossed over his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Babe, I <em>leant </em>it to you.It is still, in fact, mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever,” he huffs.“You’re getting married anyway.So what if he has it?It’s basically the same as you having it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh.“It really isn’t.And I do — I do agree that Caederyn likely needs it now more than you do, but I wish you had asked me first.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It wasn’t really an ‘ask first’ sort of situation,” he mumbles, not quite meeting my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head.“Just tell me next time, alright?”I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.“I don’t mind sharing, but I do like to know where my things are and who has them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon nods at last, his posture still defensive, but his expression properly chastised.“Fine,” he says.“Sure.Whatever.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I flick him on the nose.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ow!What the fuck was that for?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bend down until our faces are level.“It’s not a big deal.Stop making it more difficult than it needs to be.I’m not going to break up with you over something like this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I — wait, break up?What?Are we — is this..?”He stops short, as if unable to complete the thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” I prompt.“I can’t read your mind, you know.I’ll need you to ask me whatever it is you’re wanting to ask me.”That may not be entirely true, as I may have some idea as to what has him so off kilter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are we — are we dating..?” he asks, his voice gone suddenly small.His shoulders are tense and his face is hot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like to think we are,” I reply.“Of course, ours hasn’t been the most formal courtship, but I — I like you, Feon.I want you in my life as more than just a fixture of my relationship with Caederyn.Is that alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feon’s face is bright with color.“I’ll — uhm — I’ll have to — I think —”He, golden dragon, slayer of beasts, proud even at his lowest, stutters over his words as if there is nothing so bunglesome in his life as <em>feelings.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh.“Feon.”I take his hands in mine and wait until he meets my eyes.It takes quite a long time.“It’s alright.I can wait for your answer if you need.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He grimaces.“Ugh.<em>Fine.</em>It’s — whatever.Yes, alright?Yes, we can — we are —we’re dating!Ugh!!”He yanks his hands free of mine and darts off into the wilds of his room.He disappears behind a pile stacked higher than he is tall.“Just go away!Leave already!!” he yells back at me.I hear a distant crashing and a muffled “fuck!” from somewhere deeper in his parlor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laughing, I exit and head for my chambers.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i also did a drawing of a certain body part in order to design it for this chapter, and that drawing can be found on my NSFW twitter (mayabutspicy)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Transient Heat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allene</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even the thrill of romantic entanglement is not enough to keep me vertical much longer.The moment I’m within my bedchamber, I strip off my clothing, tie up my hair, and all but throw myself into bed.My body is buzzing with feeling: the slide of soft, cool sheets against my bare skin; the deep, delicious ache of my body after a night well spent; the coiling satisfaction in my heart every time I remember his face.I fall asleep smiling and don’t rouse again ‘til half past noon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When I exit my bedroom, a dressing gown wrapped loosely over my chemise, I find Fidelity and Clemence in the parlor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good morn — err — afternoon, Princess,” Fidelity says.“We were just about to have lunch.Would you like to join?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, please,” I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s been some time since we’ve taken a proper meal together — since the festival, I think.Things have been awkward since then and, well, can I really blame them?Servants set the table for lunch and then leave us to our strange, strained silence.I bite my lip and try to smile at them.Clemence sips solemnly at her tea.Fidelity drums her fingers on the tabletop.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About that matter—” I begin at the same time that Fidelity says, “Princess, I’d like to—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stop short, each waiting for the other, and it’s so damnably uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you’d like—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t you—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, but—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence sets down her teacup with an abrupt <em>clack.</em>We fall silent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is time we all talked,” Clemence says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I agree.“I — I’m sorry I didn’t do so sooner but, well — this whole matter has been rather unprecedented.I’m sorry for keeping so much from the both of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity’s gaze is cast downwards, her head tilted forward so that her ginger hair falls over her brow.“I wish you had told us,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” I reply.“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are we not — have we not earned that trust?After all this time?”She tilts her head up just enough to meet my eye.Her lips are pulled into a tight pucker.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">”No!Oh, <em>Fidelity!”</em> I gasp, aghast.“If it were a simple matter of trust, know that I would have told you everything readily,” I assure her.“But in this, I — I didn’t feel it was my place to out Feon, not with how much he seemed to enjoy the anonymity of mundanity.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity turns her head to the side.I wait for her response, but nothing comes.I cast my gaze upon Clemence and beseech her silently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence purses her lips and then says: “I understand your choice.I do not appreciate it... but I understand it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you forgive me for it?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After what feels like a lifetime, Clemence says, “Yes, in time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I exhale a long-held breath.“Thank you.That is more than enough for me.”I bite my lip.“And you, Fidelity..?” I ask, turning to her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, so slowly, she meets me gaze.“I —” she begins, but stops suddenly.She picks up her wine glass and takes a large gulp from it.She sets the glass down so forcefully that the liquid within nearly sloshes over the brim. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I — I’m so <em>angry!” </em>Fidelity exclaims.Her round face is flushed with color.“With — with you and with him and with <em>me</em> for being such a heap of Laws damned talc!”She slams her fists down on the table, causing the settings to jump and clatter.“Looking back, he was so damn obvious about the whole thing it was like he wasn’t even <em>trying</em> to hide it!If I’d just used my brain for even a quarter of a second, I would have seen—”She cuts herself off with a frustrated sigh before reaching for her glass and hastily downing the rest of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence casts Fidelity a sidelong glance before speaking.“I will admit my pride is not unscathed.”She eyes me intently.“I am curious as to how <em>you</em> came to uncover this matter.I don’t imagine he was particularly forthcoming about it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laugh.“Oh, Laws, no!Can you imagine?He began the entire thing with the intent of spying on me to — I don’t know, to find some weakness about me and use it to end my betrothal.No, I had suspicions the moment those conservatory birds took such a liking to ‘Fae’ and I gained confirmation of my suspicions that first day when we all played cards together.It was the Shiftweave that gave him away.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should have figured it out that day,” Fidelity huffs.“I saw her — <em>him</em> — exiting his own chambers, but I thought...He’d just been teased about catching feelings for — well — himself and I...”She slides down in her chair until she’s slumped low in it, her skirts all rucked up around her shoulders.She buries her head in her hands and groans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I say again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity shakes her head.“No — I — I’ll get over it.Or at least, I’ll get over <em>your</em> part in it.More than anything, I — I am absolutely <em>mortified.”</em>She slumps forward, pushing away her plate so she can cross her arms over the table and rest her head atop them, face down, her gentle waves splayed all about her like a sea nettle’s tentacles.“I’m such a fool,” she mumbles, her voice muffled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are,” Clemence agrees.She leans forward and with a single careful finger, she draws Fidelity’s hair back and away from her face.“But that is your charm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fidelity lifts her head just enough to glare at Clemence with two wet, swamp green eyes.“You were tricked too, you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Clemence replies, unbothered.She tucks Fidelity’s hair behind her ear.“You’ll choose better next time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What little there is to see of Fidelity’s face vanishes as she turns away from Clemence and buries her head deeper.Clemence straightens and meets my gaze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There is another matter with which you should be concerned, Princess.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I startle.“Oh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lady Renée.She heard the truth as well.I have spoken with her since and she has assured me that she will keep this secret, but I do not know her well enough to be confident in her word.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frown.“I’d nearly forgotten her.If she lets it slip — it can’t be good.I don’t imagine that Feon is the only Bonded dragon to have experimented with their human form, but I’ve seen no mention of this manner of shifting during my extracurricular research and I find that omission concerning.I have to wonder just how many people know about this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clemence nods, her brow furrowed, one hand raised thoughtfully to her lips.“I have already impressed upon her how advantageous it would be to hold your confidence,” she says.“Mayhap that will be enough to seal her lips.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hope it is,” I reply.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll prepare in the case that a contingency is required,” Clemence says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">❖</span>
</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I don’t make it up to my workroom until the next day.Towards the end of our strange and rather stilted luncheon, I showed my scarred wrist to Fidelity and Clemence, after which they promptly insisted on taking me to see a medic.He prescribed me a poultice for swift healing as well as a noxious concoction of herbs for my headache and then bid me to take, at bare minimum, a day’s rest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My wrist doesn’t hurt so much anymore.It isn’t completely healed, of course, but it is much improved.Now and then it aches, like an old injury warning a change in weather.More than anything, it itches.It is all I can do to keep myself from scratching it raw despite the bandages wrapped around it.Only the cooling poultice supplied by the medic helps to soothe it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The itching complicates my research, needlessly fraying my focus.Clemence and Fidelity join me in the tower for a time — Fidelity worrying away at a cross stitch as Clemence methodically dismantles her stacks upon stacks of letters, both in- and outgoing.It’s nice to have them with me again, but after we pause to take lunch together I bid them to leave me.I need to focus and the steady scratching of Clemence’s quill only makes the itching worse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If only the writing on my wrist were in modern Fennlish — that, at least, would be simple enough, although still somewhat of a headache.Fennlish is one of those languages where context reigns supreme.A single word — and a word in archaic Fennlish at that — is not much to work with.Still, after a full day of combing my modern Fennlish dictionary and cross referencing it against multiple other sources, I think I have it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are two most likely options before me.First, “vletévir,” a word to describe a fleeting moment, the spring of one’s life, that gossamer line between innocence and adolescence.And second, “vlutvor,” a nasty word which translates roughly to “blood thief” or “blood eater.”Somehow, I doubt the marking on my wrist says the former.All the same, I pen a message to Arcanist Ebner entreating her to enquire with Kerr Gooden yet again.She does not immediately respond, but I trust her to relay the message, although not without some measure of bitterness at being made to play messenger once again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the siphon quill’s ink dries and fades away, transferring to a book on near the opposite end of the continent, I hear a knock at my door.I glance out the window.It’s nearing sundown.Soon, the drachenglas window will be lit for night time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come in,” I call.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door opens and Caederyn enters, his posture stiff and crisp, his face pensive.I gesture for him to join me.He does so.After an awkward moment of hesitation, he leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek before glancing over my desk.Even in this heat, he’s dressed properly, with a high, starched collar and full length sleeves.I wonder if he has a summer wardrobe made with lighter, more breathable fabrics or if he has simply grown accustomed to summer’s torment after a life raised in its embrace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is all this?” he asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Research, as always,” I reply.I spread my arms wide over my desk, palms up.“Though this time of a somewhat different nature.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s eyes fall to my bandaged wrist and he goes utterly and completely still.“Allene,” he breathes, “What happened to your arm?Are you — are you alright?”He reaches for my arm but then halts mid-movement.His body is electric with tension.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, it’s fine,” I reply breezily.“I mean — it’s not <em>fine.</em>I <em>was</em> accosted by a stingy moon bint in a pond.And it itches like all hell, but it doesn’t hurt much anymore.Not really.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I reach for his outstretched hand and squeeze it for a brief moment before dropping it.I consider asking him what he took from my workroom not four days prior, but quickly think better of it.I don’t think now is a good time.Standing, I close my journal with a snap before stowing it in my pocket and turning towards him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But if you feel I’m in dire need of comforting, I wouldn’t say no to dinner together.Just the two of us.”I smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn seems to relax slightly, the tension in his face abating.He cards a hand through his hair and smiles.“I came here to ask for just the same thing,” he says.His eyes are soft and cast down and slightly to the side.I move my hand to his shoulder and his gaze follows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s go, then, shall we?” I say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nods, then takes my hand from his shoulder and brings it to his lips.“Alright.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s parlor is conservatively decorated and absolutely pristine.It looks staged, almost: the cream and white walls, the pale golden curtains, the bookshelves filled with pieces that are more akin to decoration than literature, those same ostentatiously bound treatises on war, bureaucracy and philosophy as might occupy any politician’s shelves.The art is safe and uninteresting and almost entirely comprised of vaguely patriotic landscape paintings.The furnishings are so bland, so impersonal, that they could house just about anyone and yet feel as if they belong to no one.It feels performative.Like a mask.It makes me sad to see it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We have dinner, just the two of us at that small table by the window.Jasper fusses over us and our arrangements for several minutes before he finally leaves us be.It’s dark out now and the curtains have been drawn closed and the lights have been lit.In the daytime, the room’s sole saving grace is its beautiful view of the sloping tree line and the city beyond and the crisp daylight that blankets it all.Now, the room has a closed off and stifled feeling to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is everything alright?” Caederyn asks midway through serving me a dish of greens.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I blink, surprised, and straighten in my seat.“Yes, of course.Why wouldn’t it be?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn sets the bowl of greens down and picks up his fork, turns it bottom-side-up, taps his index finger against its slope.“It’s nothing, really — only that usually by now you’d be talking my ear off about your research, be it good or bad, either to excitedly recant some revelation or bemoan your frustrations.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shake my head and loose a breath that’s almost a laugh.“I will admit to being somewhat distracted.Today’s research — well, I have mixed feelings on the subject.I’m glad to have settled the matter of this particular inquiry so quickly, but...”Frowning, I recant the contents of the attempted summoning and the word now carved into my skin.Caederyn listens solemnly and without interruption.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Feon said he’d be willing to contact her on his own later and while I do believe that may be the best means of engendering an amicable parlay, I do not know if I am comfortable with it.I don’t trust this soggy lake lady’s intentions, nor her interest in Feon.As far as he’s concerned, their relationship is no more than a particularly spicy tryst, but like as not she wants more from him than transient heat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh and take a bite of the tender, flaky fish that is tonight’s main course.It’s a good and summery dish: delicate and light, the skin perfectly crisped, the fat balanced by the acidity of a lime.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s hypocritical,” I continue, frowning into my wineglass.“Vlutvor — as if <em>she</em> hasn’t taken of his blood, as if <em>she</em> isn’t seeking it.It’s not even like she called dibs — if anyone has the right to that claim besides Feon, it’s you, isn’t it?You’ve only been sharing blood since you were, what, four?Five?”I scoff and slump back in my chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re really upset about this,” Caederyn says.He sounds surprised.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No — oh — I don’t know!Yes, yes I am upset.She’s worse than Feon was about you.Or maybe they’re just as bad.I don’t know!”I drop my fork with a clatter and bury my face in my hands.“At least Feon is — he’s gotten better.And he never <em>hurt</em> me, not really.I mean, he did attempt to spy on me, but what’s a little blackmail amongst friends?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I drop my hands and look up just in time to catch Caederyn slack-faced, his fork halfway to his mouth, his hair falling over his brow.He looks strained.Uncertain.He takes a bite, chews, swallows, purses his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh.“Oh, out with it, you.What is the matter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn shifts in his seat and clears his throat.“Are you still mad at him for that?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For what?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The — the animosity, the spying... The — well — <em>everything.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrug.“Oh, no, not really.I’ve moved past all that.But I <em>do</em> fully intend to never let him live any of it down.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He bites his lip.“So, then — things are going well?Between the two of you?”Caederyn’s shoulders shrug up towards his ears.His eyes search the table for anything to look at save for my face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” I answer.I lean forward in my seat.“What about you, Caederyn?Are things well between the two of you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He won’t meet my gaze.“No,” he says.“No, not really.We had a — a fight.When he gave me the ring.We haven’t spoken since.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, <em>Caed,”</em> I sigh.I reach for his hand but he pulls it back before our fingers can touch.I frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I — uhm — there is something — a matter I’d like to speak of.With — with you.If that is alright.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, of course,” I reply, nonplussed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know our wedding is soon,” he says.“Preparations for the palace are already underway.Guests will start arriving shortly — though I suppose the Ballards were the first so they’ve already begun...”He frowns down at his plate as if it has somehow wronged him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A-Anyway, the first part of the celebration starts in a week and in three weeks — in three weeks we will be wed.”His hands are clenched on the table, one atop the other, the fingers of the top hand picking idly at the opposing sleeve.“But if it is no longer in your heart to marry me, then we can — we can postpone it, abort it if you’d rather.Whatever you want.We need not go through with it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stare at him, flabbergasted.Of all things to fall from his lips — this, I expected least of all.I rise slowly from my seat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Caederyn,” I breathe.“What — what is the meaning of this?Are you — have you grown dissatisfied with our relationship?With me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No!” he exclaims, aghast, and for the first time in so many minutes he meets my gaze.His eyes are wide and beseeching.“I just — I know that you have — that he — that the two of you have grown entangled and I — I wouldn’t be happy — but I would not leverage our betrothal to the detriment of your heart.If it is he who you have chosen, I would — I would respect your wishes.I would never seek to ransom your affections.I do not want you to feel obligated to tether yourself to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some time during his monologue, my legs went weak and I find myself sitting once more, slumped, my shoulders slack.I lean back in my chair and stare at him.“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks away and resumes picking at his sleeve.“I’d never want — as much as I am able, I do not want you to ever do something against your will.Not for me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I press a palm to my brow and sigh.“Caederyn,” I say, doing my best to summon all the patience in my being.“Need I remind you again that it was <em>I </em>who proposed to <em>you?”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I never thought it was possible to be worn thin by pity.Looking at his face, at those sad brown eyes and that lip he’s worried near to bleeding, I feel so very full and yet so depleted.I think in time I might come to love this man — for better or for worse, I really think I might — and yet he is so determined to pronounce himself unlovable.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice thick and wet, his eyes gone shiny.“Feelings change.I understand.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s watching me with wide eyes, as if his whole world begins and ends with me, as if I hold his already dilapidated heart in my hand and he has all but begged me to wring it dry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have a question for you, Caed, and I want you to think seriously about this for me.”I pause and wait until he nods, anxiety brimming in those soft, wet eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When was the last time you ever saw me do something I did not expressly wish to do?”I spread my arms wide before me.“Do I seem like someone who is bogged down by obligation?I have both the material means and the ingenuity to construct my life as I please.No one has forced me into this union, least of all you, and I am tired of this narrative you continue to spin for yourself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You do not hold the sort of power over me that you presume to have.It is not your place to decide for me what I want or what is right for me.If there comes a time when I grow unhappy with our relationship, by the Laws that bind me I swear you will know of it directly from my mouth.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn stares back at me, his mouth just parted, his eyes not quite focused.“Oh,” is all he manages.His gaze falls to his hands.“Oh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I abandon my seat and take to his side, kneeling beside him and waiting patiently until he meets my eyes once more.I steady my breathing and take a moment to ensure that when I speak, I am able to do so with some measure of the softness that he so desperately needs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is true that what lays between Feon and myself has become something in its own right, but that does not in any measure negate my feelings for you.I should have made it clear — I forget, sometimes, the disparities between our cultures. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We should have had this conversation earlier, maybe before we even got engaged.I can be foolhardy too, you know, and I thought — I knew that the Nadaran populace was largely monogamous, or at least that it purports to be, strange as I still find that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But the royal line...With the Bond and everything I’d read about it and all the stories — I’d assumed that it was normal for the sovereign and their Bonded and their spouse to be enmeshed together and, well, there is no shortage of literature on the nature of such relationships. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nadaran romance is a quite popular subject matter, actually — I think it must be the intrigue of secrecy and taboo.I’d thought, with all the literature on extra-marital affairs and triads and the like, that perhaps the culture was less monogamous than it purported to be—”I realize that I am rambling and cut myself short. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn frowns down at me, his brow furrowed.“Did you — did you learn about our culture from reading romance novels?” he asks, the words coming slowly as if he can’t quite believe them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bite my lip.“Yes and no — listen, I sourced a broad spectrum of texts and if some of my reading was less academic than the rest, well, at the very least I cast a wide net.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn buries his face in his hands and laughs wetly.“I hate that, I think.Just a little.Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I sigh.“No, that’s alright, it — it was stupid of me.And insensitive.I should have realized—”I stop and shake my head.“Listen, Caederyn, as much of a mess as we’ve made of this, I still think we have something good between us and it is something I am willing to work for.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sniffs and lowers his hands, trying to covertly wipe at his eyes in the process.I pretend not to notice.I reach for his hands again and this time he lets me.They’re warm and wet, slicked by tears or sweat or both.I hold them all the same.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I really think I could grow to love you, Caederyn, and I think you could do the same.And I want that for us.But I also know myself and I know — I cannot be exclusive.I can give you all of me but I cannot give it to you alone.If that is not something you can bear, I need you to tell me.I do not wish my nature to be the cause of your undoing, but I cannot change myself.Not like this.Not for you.Not for anyone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s eyes are wide as he stares down at me.His face is pale.He looks stricken to the core, helpless, a white flag shredded by the wind.I lick my lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will this be a problem for you?” I ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An eternity passes before he answers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” he says, his voice small.“Thinking about it — it hurts.”His eyes fall to our still joined hands.“It’s painful, but it’s also... a relief.In a way.”His grip tightens.“You know that my line — that my family — we do not live terribly long lives, not historically.Father is treading seldom crossed waters and he’s only fifty-six.To know that you would not be alone if I were to be cut short before my time — that, at least, would be welcome to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I lay my head upon his thigh.Voice soft, I say, “That isn’t what I was asking, babe.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” he breathes.His voice is such a sad, broken thing.“I need more time before I can give you a real answer.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod.“Alright.I can give you that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He squeezes my hands.“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What of Feon?” I ask.“You love him, Caed, and he you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn’s body shakes and it’s not until I hear him gasp for air that I realize that he is not crying, but laughing.“Love doesn’t describe the half of it, not for us,” he chokes out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slips a hand from mine to wipe once more at his eyes.I bury my face against his gut and wrap my arm around his waist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” I whisper.“I wish I could make it all good between you two.Between all of us.I worry that my relationship with him will hurt you.That it already has hurt you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It does, somewhat,” he admits, his voice shaky.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this the line, then?” I ask.“Is he your ultimatum?Can you be with me knowing that I will also be with him?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a terrible fragility to my betrothed.He’s like a diamond: the very structure that lends him strength strips from him any measure of malleability.He can never bend, only fracture.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not certain,” he whispers, and his voice is a chafed and brittle thing.“Seeing you together — I don’t know what to do.Sometimes it makes me so angry, so bitter...”He sighs.His thumb grazes my cheek and it’s such a tentative thing, so gentle and yielding.“I get jealous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s okay, babe,” I reply.I turn my head and kiss his fingertips.“That’s normal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sometimes, though — sometimes it’s a relief.To see him with you and know that I am not the only one he looks to with an open heart.It breaks me, knowing what I’ve done to him.He deserves better.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I kiss the pad of his index finger, then the base where finger turns to hand, and then his palm.He doesn’t shrink away from my touch.I think he must need this just as much as I do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you willing to try this with me?” I ask.“For real this time.With everything on the table.I can wait for you to give me a real answer, but — but if you could try it.”I suck on the inside of my cheeks.“I know I am asking a lot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Caederyn exhales a long, shuddering breath.“I think so,” he whispers.“I don’t know if I can do it.But I want to at least try.”His hand moves to my scalp and he runs those long, knobby fingers through my hair.They tremble all the while.“If nothing else, we can stay friends, right?We needn’t be in love to be married.Many political marriages are like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“True,” I say, “But I’d like to make it work.If we can.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wrap both my arms about his waist and around the chair back, settling my uninjured wrist within the grasp of my left hand.I rest my chin upon his thigh so that I can tilt my head back to properly look him in the eye. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We have time,” I continue.“Time to see where this goes, time to figure ourselves out.”I smile at him and do my best to look reassuring.“At any rate, there is always divorce.It’s not as if I’ve any intention to shackle you to me irreparably.And you’re free to pursue other relationships at your leisure, if that is your will.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nods once, slowly.He looks calmer now.More solid, somehow.His face is still flushed, his eyes red-rimmed and watery and the skin around them has grown puffy, but that shakiness within him has abated somewhat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiles at me, just a little, and it’s so strange how that tiny quirk of his mouth can fill my heart to bursting, how the quivering of his lips can overflow me with fondness.He has grown so very dear to me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like when you’re vulnerable like this with me,” I murmur.“I’m sorry I had to hurt you to see it.”</span>
</p>
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